When she was sane and a pop star on MTV, I didn't care about her. I shouldn't care about her now that she's out of control. I can't stop staring at her. I actually clicked on the link to see a picture of her period panties. I actually clicked the link. Why? Why would I do such a thing?
Her dissent into madness means nothing. Her music never meant anything. Her relationships with her family are not important to me. I can't stop reading about them.
My difficulty in stopping watching the Britney dramedy is like my inability to get out of my marriage. I don't like the way it makes me feel. I don't like putting this shit into my head. It's spiritually degrading. It's emotionally exhausting. I don't know how to stop doing it.
My husband is downstairs in the first stages of withdrawal. He didn't have his shit together this week, and he's out of methadone money. He also missed his dose last Sunday, which seems to be making this evening a little rougher for him. I feel sad for him. I can't help him. He's got money for tomorrow, so he's only got to make it until 5 a.m. I am furious with myself for expending my mental energy thinking these things. I'm tired of thinking these things. I won't stop thinking these things, and I won't stop being in a situation where these things are required of me. I am tired of myself.
There is a little ray of hope, though. He started feeling bad, and he went to bed. He asked me to come to him, and I did, and he thanked me for being here and told me he loves me. That little moment of gratitude, that morsel of sweetness, gives me hope that there's still a good man inside him.