A few years ago, I was given an opportunity to dip my toe into the celebrity blogging waters. It had been a dream to have my own gossip site ever since I found myself thousand miles away from family and friends, looking for social interaction on blogs and forums as a stay-at-home mom. That toe dip turned into a plunge. It was messy and ugly. I had no idea what the hell I was doing and I enjoyed every fucking minute of it. Writing became a full-time job that I’ve mixed in with the rest of my gross, grown-up obligations and responsibilities. I’ve cried, screamed, swore, chipped my long-ass whore talons banging on my keyboard, and come out on the other side believing that with enough willpower, determination, love, blood, sweat and tears that could I mold The Hollywood Sigh into the vision I’ve had for the better part of a decade.
I started THS believing “if you write it (with enough humor and fuck words), they will come.” If I had a crystal ball at the time, I would have also known that it requires more knowledge about web design, marketing, advertising, copyright and trademark law and social media than I could ever possess. And the big one: money. I’ve added potential revenue streams. I’ve done the math (poorly, as you all know) up one side and down the other. I’ve had my husband use his MBA that’s so fresh the ink on the diploma is still wet to help me find a way to keep things fresh and new while moving them forward to find a larger audience.
And it just about breaks my heart to say that there isn’t one.
I love this job and wish the money a Kardashian gets paid for pimping some crap product out in a single tweet would fall in my lap to be able to invest in photos, marketing and social media. Believe me when I say I have never worked harder on anything in my life. This is my baby. My dream. But as much as I’m willing to half-ass a lot of things in life, this isn’t one of them.
THS will cease publishing this Friday, May 20. It wasn’t a decision I made lightly, and I may or may not be dripping a few tears on a toddler sleeping across my lap as I type this.
Posts will continue to go up for the rest of the week because my anal retention won’t allow me to quit a bitch on a random-ass Tuesday. My love and sincere gratitude to you all.
Name: Jeffrey Dean Morgan DOB: April 22, 1966 Age: 50 Fun Fact: He has a scar on his cheek from the time he was out riding his motorcycle and saw a man beating up a woman outside a 7-11. He stopped to break it up and the woman smashed him in the head with a bottle from behind.
Every time I see this man, I want to creeper sniff his chest hair, run my fingernails through that silver fox beard, and crawl into one of his dimples to set up camp. If that’s wrong, I don’t want to be right and if’s weird, just be glad I stopped with the camping thing before getting to an overtly sexual S’mores marshmallow creme metaphor.
JDM recently joined the cast of The Walking Dead as the Lucille-toting psychopath Negan. I have’t binge-watched an established TV show since Boo Boo and I got halfway through Game of Thrones and abandoned it in favor of him going to get his MBA, but once we get our shit together with that, TWD is next. With a decent amount of dedication (and re-watching the last twenty minutes of every episode because my husband’s ass fell asleep) we may be caught up in time to watch the season 6 cliffhanger resolution.
Onto the eye candy!
With wife Hilarie Burton of One Tree Hill fame (What the hell rock have I been living under because I didn’t know they were married and had a kid??)
Pinkie rings usually make me think of a slimy little character in a cheap suit played by Joe Pesci, but I’ll make an exception here.
The left one. That’s my camping dimple.
The unending Grey’s Anatomy storyline dedicated to the ghost of Denny Duquette featuring Izzie’s supernatural “I see dead people and totally bang them” sex would have been infinitely worse if JDM wasn’t bringing the plain white tee hotness.
Please bow your heads and say a small prayer for Instagram’s servers. Between Kim Kardashian vowing to post nude selfies until she’s nothing but lumps of re-distributed fat sliding around inside a skin sleeping bag and kicks the bucket, and Courtney Stodden announcing her pregnancy before the pee even dried on the stick, those servers are going to need all the intervention–divine or otherwise–they can get.
The statement that’s swirling around from Courtney came from her injected, greasy lips to Us Weekly‘s ears.
“It’s a bittersweet time for me right now. I’m dealing with a lot of stress and emotions surrounding life and its ups and downs. Doug and I weren’t planning on going public with this so soon. I’m only four weeks along in my pregnancy. But some things are out of your control.”
I first saw her confirmation on Page Six and thought there would be more to the story. Courtney has been duking it out on Lifetime’s The Mother/Daughter Experiment: Celebrity Edition with her estranged mother, Krista Keller. I assumed the early pregnancy announcement was tied to some manufactured drama pitting the evil mother who pushed her 16-year-old daughter into a marriage with a man 34 years her senior against the couple who has survived against the odds. If Courtney is going to make it sound like she and husband Doug Hutchinson‘s hands were forced, where’s the backstory that necessitated such an angsty statement? I can only award Courtney one star out of five on the Sliding Famewhore Scale if this is all there is to it.
Courtney and Doug married in 2011. She skyrocketed to D-list fame as a teenaged bride who slowly morphed into a lower rent Heidi Montag while he remained a middle aged washed up actor playing the part of the neighborhood spending his free time trying to lure kids into a back alley where his panel van with the tear stained air mattress awaits. They appeared on Couples Therapy the year after they wed, broke things off in 2013 and got back together the following year. Best of luck to them, their baby (or “baby” if you’re not buying it) and the next chapter of their half-assed attempts to manufacture marketable drama.
When I imagine a political cat fight breaking out these days, it’s usually over New Jersey Governor and Donald Trump bitch boy Chris Christie hitting a catering table at a political event without any thought to the equitable distribution of the food. Other guests are trying to snag a finger sandwich while he’s stuffing hors d’oeuvres into his suit jacket pockets and pouring gravy down his pants. Harsh words are exchanged. A cheese platter gets flipped. Ugly, ugly shit.
Also ugly (but less likely to sound like a news report from the great fuck up state of Florida) is what went down between actor Wendell Pierce and a woman around 4 o’clock Saturday morning at the Loews Hotel in Atlanta. According to The Daily Beast, an argument started in one of the hotel hallways over politics. Wendell is firmly in Hillary Clinton’s corner and a conversation with a Bernie Sanders supporter turned ugly on the 23rd floor. An unidentified woman stepped into the altercation and she claims Wendell started to push her.
At this point her and her friends began to walk to their room,” the police officer reported, after interviewing the alleged victim. She claimed that Pierce then “followed them to their room and stuck his arm in the door and tried to enter the room,” before she and “her friends tried to push Mr. Pierce out when he began to hit her in the head and grab her hoodie, ripping the hood off.”
Wendell’s version of events had the woman and her friends attempting to pull him into their room as he tried to get away. Both parties refused medical treatment, but photographs of minor injuries were taken. Wendell, known for his work on The Wire and recently as Clarence Thomas in Confirmation, was arrested for simple battery and was released on $1,000 bail.