Editor Obsession

November 19, 2009 • By The Breeze,
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Just as I fell short of imagining a Halloween costume fantastic enough to stand in the shadow of her greatness, the word “obsessed” falls horribly short in terms of my interest in Lady GaGa. I worship this idol so much that my religion on Facebook was “I want to be Lady GaGa when I grow up” for a good portion of this year. This declarative status changed the day media reported GaGa was a hermaphrodite. I immediately clicked to Twitter to find GaGa’s status: An outlandish too-inappropriate-for-repetition-confirmation of the rumor.

I was going to die of shock. Eyes watering, phone gripped to my racing heart, I ran outside my D.C. office to vomit, send out a mass text, and/or throw myself in front of a Segway tour. Knocking through bumbling tourists, I felt like a girl in a dramatic movie who just discovered her husband in bed with her sister. I felt betrayed, like GaGa was hiding something (literally) in those leotards she rocked in the “Paparazzi” video I watched 17 times daily.

Yet after a few sleepless nights and Internet research, I concluded this was all just a genius P.R. ploy. Of course, so fabulous. Would I want anything less from an occasionally diamond and blood-drenched friend of Marilyn Manson? No. And that’s exactly what makes GaGa so glorious — her enigma and aura of being so superior to our uncreative, child-like souls. My religion should be changed to “GaGa is God.”

Editor Obsession

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