Paparazzi aren’t stalking us as we sip our cappuccino. TMZ doesn’t report how sexy we look in our Brooks Brothers blue. And we’re certainly not tabloid famous like sad Lindsay Lohan or crazed Charlie Sheen. Our names don’t grace the side of a trailer on a movie set, and we don’t stroll the red carpet in Chanel before screaming fans.
Sure, I’d love to pal with Jack Nicholson at a Lakers game, have a Sam Adams with Matt Damon in Southie, or split pasta at Del Posto with Meryl Streep. But I’m not that cool. I’m not Hollywood. Neither are you.
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