The four stages of a trashy magazine binge.

This weekend I spent 6.5 hours with my hairdresser. Why all the salon overtime, you ask?

It was pretty much a result of my inability to articulate what I want in coherent sentences and a short trip down bad balayage lane, which briefly had me looking much more 16 and Pregnant than Keeping up with the Kardashians.

But 6.5 hours at the hairdresser, also meant 6.5 hours with our country's finest (cough) gossip magazines.

And sitting there in the salon, I went on a emotional roller coaster ride through the four totally legit stages of gossip rag binging:

Stage 1: You can't get enough of those good ole' fake baby bumps 

'I wanted every make-up free, triple-chinned pap shot I could get my hands on.' Image via Comedy Central. 

At first I took to the gossip mags like, well, like myself to the Krispy Kreme stand at the local 7/11.

I poured over the photos of scarily skinny celebs and giggled with glee over their latest rehab stints. I couldn't get enough of those 'close personal friends' ratting out their celebrity pals.

I wanted every make-up free, triple-chinned pap shot I could get my hands on. I was on a judging streak and it was bloody glorious.

Stage 2: Can we all just leave Jennifer Aniston alone? 

After a couple of hours I began to feel a sneaking allegiance to our famous friends. They are just people, you guys.

Stop picking on Miley Cyrus everyone - she's the Lindsay Lohan of the 10's and we need her. #TEAMJENFORLIFE

Stage 3: WHO EVEN AM I? 

What was I even doing with  my life? Image via CW. 

By hour five, I had lost my whole identity. WHAT WAS I EVEN DOING WITH MY LIFE?

I'm 32. In gossip rag world I would have at least two ex-husbands and six adopted children by now.

One brief marriage in the 90s that lasted just long enough for us to get matching tramp stamps before one of us entered rehab (probably me). And a longer stint with a co-star in which we would adopt all the children in Sub-Saharan Africa.

And those kids I haven't adopted yet? They're still hanging out in their small villages, having no idea what Gucci is, because I can't get my shit together.

Stage 4: You're going to get through this

Finally, this the moment when your stylist puts down the GHD, you sneak a glance in the mirror and discover that you look less like a female serial killer and more like your old self. And you realise you won't have to read another tabloid mag for at least 6-8 weeks. Bliss.

Missed my last post? Tap that.