I’ve never been a fan of Britney Spears simply because I never knew who she was. Different generations and music genres. I’ve recently been watching her Instagram. Initially, because it was like watching the antics of Kanye West. It’s a juicy and titillating cringe fest. It’s my afternoon cup of tea and biscuit drool over weird celebrity shit. The voluptuous idea that even the rich and famous are off their rockers and have continuous bad days far more catastrophic and beyond imagining than us mere mortals could ever have. It makes us feel better. We see that money isn’t a cure all and fame is a destroyer of humility and an inflator of ego. It’s nothing new.
BUT anyway it’s Britney’s house that bothers me now. It’s clearly huge, well obviously it would be but it makes me anxious for her. Her loneliness is palpable. It’s like Miley’s flowers video. The bit where she dresses after her shower and is going to spend the night with herself. Where she dances around the kitchen and her home as if she’s fine. But we all know that feeling and those times and it’s not what we actually feel it’s what we wish we did. It’s self preservation. It’s what we do as humans.
I think Britney should run away and come live in my bungalow for a few weeks. Hunker down here in Keighley. No one would even know. My best friend loves her anyway and between us we could try to teach her how to love herself for herself. Show her that she is more than just her body. I don’t know, just give her some female mate love.
