I can’t … I just … I am so sick of her. I am sick — and tired.
I don’t even know what to say anymore. I really don’t. I don’t even know if there’s anything worth saying. I mean, okay. She’s getting photographed everywhere with her frigging pants legs cuffed into frigging capris, and then there’s this steaming hot mess.
This is Kat(i)e Married-to-a-Crazy-Midget Holmes at the Tropic Thunder premiere. You should she the rest of the pictures: Kate and Tom — how suburban WASP, oh my! — grinning maniacal, shark like grins at the photographer, as if they are preparing to devour him. Like either of them have any right to be grinning. Like they have something to be proud of.
I don’t know what’s with the apparent grip tape — or is that pleather? or vinyl? jeezum crow! — binding her up. I don’t get the bodice at all. But more than anything I don’t get that unflattering, poofy helmet of a hairstyle. Seriously, it’s like she’s preparing herself to be the suburban, Scientologist housewife. Soon, those rolled up jeans will turn into mom jeans, complete with high water hems. She’ll be telling the soccer coach not to put any antiseptic spray onto Suri’s scraped knee, because ZOMG IT’S OF THE DEVIL!













