For some reason, I find myself fascinated with Octomom. It’s so unlike me to care about something that doesn’t affect me. I don’t care which celebrity got married, cheated on his girlfriend, or got pregnant because it’s none of my business and doesn’t affect me. That’s what makes my Octomom interest so hypocritical: whatever she does is none of my business and doesn’t affect me. And yet…I’m compelled.

I think I’m lured by the situation–it’s a circus of chaos. Where else is the media parked outside 24 hours a day? The cameras follow her for a reason–the woman is a total nut job. It seems like there’s Octomom news on a daily basis. But above all, I’m waiting for her inevitable crash. When the media goes away, she’s going to hafta find a way to raise 14 children on zero income (Her family has more parts than a basketball team. An NBA squad has 12 players; she has 14 kids. If Donald Sterling can barely afford to pay the Clippers: how is she going to feed her own flock?). I’m not sure what sorta satisfaction I’m looking for–I just know the moment it all comes crumbling down will bring me . . . . .