I thought Rihanna was doing fine. Paparazzi spotted her out and about last night at celebrity hotspot Georgio Baldi, in Santa Monica. In her signature style, she sported a bright red coat and cardigan, unbuttoned just enough to reveal her belly button and her lack of a bra, while on her head there was a hat. It was a troublesome hat. A worrisome hat, even.
Upon first glance, my heart stopped. I fell on the floor, dead as a dead person, and just lay there for a while, until the blood started pumping through my frozen corpse. When I regained my senses, I sat back at my computer, eyes still cloudy with the fog of death. I rubbed them some, saw the hat once more, and died all over again.
I was stuck in this death cycle for approximately 20 minutes. I couldn’t stop looking at the hat, nor could I click away from it, and banish it from my sight permanently. Slowly, the image was laser-etched into my retinas, and I was doomed to have her fit haunt me forever.
Finally, I mustered the courage to scroll to the next picture.
