(image via Terry's Diary}
Terry Richardson may be an awesome photographer but let's face it, the part of me that is always on-guard for people who just aren't right goes beserk when I hear his name. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end, my shoulders stiffen, the alarm in my brain rings repeatedly.
He is notorious for his perverted (to be kind) photo sessions. This is one of the kinder articles. Try this one from Dlisted; it is downright disturbing (you've been warned).
Terry is obviously as sane and rational as my 82 year-old grandfather, afflicted with Alzheimer's, who walked around for the last 10 years of his life with a 3x5 card in his pocket that said: "If lost, please return to...."
Earlier this week, news broke of Terry dating on honest-to-goodness real person, with a real job and a real brain. Are you baffled (as I scratch my head in disbelief)? What I do know is this city's single male pool must be dried up if an intelligent, coherent woman resorts to dating Terry Richardson. I can list a dozen or so other men I'd rather date (if a gun was to my head, of course). I would take Regis Philbin, Richard Simmons, Keith Richards, The Situation (oh man, I can't believe I put that in writing), Donald Trump, perhaps even Spencer Pratt over the dangerously pedo-looking Terry R. In other words, in my Fantasy Marry, Bang, Kill League, Terry always dies.
Now, off to shower the slime away. The research for this post has got me feeling grody....