On the surface, you could say my Suzy Q. books are about celebrity. I would beg to differ. (Unless, of course, you like that, in which case, yes, they are totally about celebrity.) Otherwise, what my Suzy Q. books are really about is our collective reaction to celebrity. My protagonist is, after all, a paparazza – even if a rather reluctant one. How we create and react to stardom is, to me, infinitely more fascinating than the celebrity himself.

Still.

If you’re gonna talk about celebrities, you should be familiar with them, right? I can do that. I can troll the websites. I can watch three or four minutes of Entertainment Tonight in one sitting. I can TMZ and Defamer and even, after half a bottle of vodka, read Perez Hilton’s drivel.

If I can do that, surely, surely I can Twitter follow some celebs, too, right?

No, of course not.

The appeal of Twitter is obvious. One hundred and forty characters straight from the mostly uncensored mouths of Twitter-authenticated celebrities. No PR hacks. No five-second delay. No editor. Nothing at all between me and Lindsay Lohan.

You see where this is going.

It turns out you actually want something between you and Lindsay Lohan, and I don’t just mean a prophylactic.

Not to pick on Lindsay. There is enough ick to go around. I am looking at you, Kevin-Smith-of-Clerks-fame. Do I need to know about your masturbatory habits? Does anyone?

The whole thing became so distressing – and by distressing I mean alternately mind-numbingly stupid and just plain gross – I had to unfollow all of them.

With one exception.

Oh, Diablo Cody. You are my sunshine. My only sunshine. Knowing when to share – yes, crazy dogs are funny! – and when not to share – I have no idea what she does in the boom-boom room.

It’s so refreshing I forgive her the ridiculous moniker. Although I am considering making everyone call me Spicy Cheyenne.