I don’t really follow celebrity gossip, but sometimes a pop culture story catches my attention. The latest one about Demi Moore’s total breakdown– with news of her using whippets, getting all jacked up on energy drinks and Aderall instead of eating, and raving all night long like she’s 17–is one of them.

By all counts, Demi Moore is a strikingly gorgeous woman who defies the laws of aging. If you were to judge her only on the outside, her beauty would probably far exceed the physical beauty of other Hollywood icons at that same mile-marker age of 50. Sophia Loren. Catherine Deneuve. Carmen Dell’Orefice. In comparison, Demi barely even has a wrinkle. Her face still looks like she’s in her late 20′s, and she doesn’t look “weird” like she’s had too much plastic surgery in an attempt to appear that way. So exactly what is it about Demi that’s so revolting then? Why is her obsession with remaining forever young any more unnatural than that of the rest of the entire American female culture? Why is the idea that, at 50 years old, her pounding Red Bull and uppers while huffing whipped cream canisters like a teen so much more scorned and ridiculed than the idea of someone else (who’s still too old to be) doing that?

I think it’s the gaping emptiness inside.

There is a gaping, raw emptiness to her that I think we all recognize on a cerebral level that makes us uncomfortable. We want to shun it, make fun of it, minimize it… because it’s too hard to look at.

I’m not sure what it was that was so refreshing about deleting my Facebook account, but there is this zing of exhilaration at the thought of “dropping off the grid.” Since last night, I’ve also deleted my Google + account (which I set up and then never actually used anyways) and closed down a couple of old email addresses. I was too ashamed to admit it last night, but screw it, I also shut down my fake (aka “stalker”) profile on Facebook, which I had set up to see what my (and past friends / exes) profile looked like to others. That’s just not healthy. Now I’m contemplating changing my phone number and only telling my closest friends and family, dropping the plan back to basic minutes and texts, and ceasing internet access.

I don’t know why this is so exciting. Maybe it’s the grown-up form of running away from home.

Only, when I ran away from home as a kid, it really meant I camped out behind the shrubs in front of the house for a few hours because my feelings had been hurt and I wanted to send a message to those around me. I don’t know if my grown-up version of “dropping off the grid” is sending a message to anyone… I just know it feels really good. Very, very …free.