The Woman Who Yells At Celebrities All Night On Twitter

She’s alone again tonight. A half-empty vodka bottle and a half-eaten pizza sit behind her on the coffee table. The lights are off, but the computer screen illuminates her face like a cold blue moonglow. Her dog is on the floor, snoring.

She’s loved and followed celebrities her whole life, ever since she was a little girl. She’d sing in the mirror, act in the mirror, dance in the mirror, pout in the mirror, and answer imaginary reporters’ questions in the mirror. She dreamed that one day she would be famous, but it never quite happened. She blames her father.

When Twitter came along, she finally saw a chance to become famous. She seized it. Finally, she could crash the party. This is equality. This is democracy. This is where everyone can be a star. This is the level playing field. This is better than sending someone a letter or an email or calling their agent or trying to befriend their cousin. Everyone’s on the same red carpet here. This is where the whole world can see her interacting with the rich, famous, and powerful, even if technically they don’t interact with her. Or notice her. Or even handle their own Twitter account.

She helped build them up. She paid to see their movies and buy their records. She’s the one who bought their mansion and limo and swimming pool and private jet. And what did it get her but emptiness and unhappiness? So just as she built them up, she can knock them all the way back down. The power is in her hands now, and there’s nothing they can do to stop her. She praised her hero, but it obviously went to their head. So now it’s hunting season.

Girl, you’re getting too fat.

You should have dumped him before he dumped you. I saw that coming a long time ago.

One word of advice for you: #REHAB

Nice eyebrows. LOL

Sucks to be you.

You used to make better movies.

Fire your agent.

Whoever gave you that haircut should be shot.

Who R U to judge others?

OMG, you’re pathetic.

She is a one-person TMZ sitting in that lonely, lonely room.

She brags when someone blocks her, because that means she struck a nerve.

Yet no matter how much she mocks them…no matter how much she needles them…no matter how much she exults in their misfortunes…no matter how much she knows what’s best for them…no matter how much she struts and preens and beats her chest like a triumphant jungle ape…she’d still give a limb to trade places with them.