The hardest thing about going away is coming home to some extent. It’s wonderful and fun and amazing to be in a different place every day, seeing different things, meeting new people, but then you get back to the grind. On my daily travels through cyber-space today I came upon an article about Posh Spice, who, on the cusp of publishing her autobiography, announces to the press that she’s never read a book.
Ever.
In her life.
Never.
Not once has she picked up a book, cracked the spine, smelled the wonderful ink on the pages, and then eaten up the words like a morning pastry. But low and behold, she’s written an “autobiography.”
What the f*ck? Has the line between writer and celebrity really become that smudged? Are there people out there who will actually buy this book and think that she even had a hand in writing it? Because honestly, would you believe someone who has never read a book could actually write one?
Oh, and does that mean she never reads to her kids? Because that would be a crying shame, strange geographical names and all. Silly Posh Spice, shut up, I mean really, shut up.