we have been staring at this montage du montag for the past ten minutes, while dutch contributes a disturbing soundtrack gnawing on a bone beside us. as we attempt to piece together the journeys of heidi montag’s former face we involuntary shudder every time his teeth achieve that echoing crack. that split of bone.
we’re pervertedly mesmerized by this transmogrification of this face, the journey of a small town sweetie pie along the pipes of the pop culture machine.
while we admit we can’t fathom the pressure that accompanies a career reliant on the aesthetic appearance (whichever list one may happen to land upon) we just can’t find a source of empathy for this girl. this girl (she’s 23) embodies every single thing that is broken.
what insecurity. fame without talent, artfulness nor merit. a girl’s inability to stay aware and authentic of herself while in the spotlight and in her relationship. an ass backwards moral code, somehow unscathed because she and her husband are having a threesome with jesus.
we know we have a dirty habit called the hills, but this may be enough to curb the affliction. we don’t think we could bear to watch this every week. though we can’t wait to see what she (and her ass implants) looks like four years from now.