For the last five seasons, I have used the following words – both in writing and in the baffled crevices of my own mind – to describe the kind of person Kristen Doute has willfully decided to portray herself to be onscreen:
Lunatic Psychopath Candidate for lifelong intensive therapy Amateur voodoo priestess Professional stalker Woefully misguided pseudo-human A hunk of organic matter completely devoid of self-awareness Romper-wearer Sole person to blame for why we as a society know of the repulsive existence of James Kennedy Batsh*t crazy woman forever trapped in a stunted adolescence of her own creation The person I’d least like to be trapped in an elevator with anywhere, including Trump Tower
I realize that those descriptors aren’t exactly the finest illustrations of my own kindness or compassion or the most effective way to show female solidarity, but I tend not to strive to find an element of sisterhood when I’m not quite sure the other thing in the equation is of my species. For years now, Kristen has chosen to get paid … Continue reading