Paparazzi Quotes

I believe in equality for everyone, except reporters and photographers.

Just three words? Nothing about his physical health? His equipment? His supplies?' 'You got me,' she said. 'He left a detailed status report. I just decided to lie for no reason.' 'Funny,' Venkat said. 'Be a smart-ass to a guy seven levels above you at your company. See how that works out.' 'Oh no,' Mindy said. 'I might lose my job as an interplanetary voyeur? I guess I'd have to use my master's degree for something else.' 'I remember when you were shy.' 'I'm space paparazzi now. The attitude comes with the job.

I think there are different kinds of fame. There's fame which is plastic and about paparazzi and money and being rich, and then there's the fame, which is when no one knows who you are but everyone wants to know who you are.

You really don't need to be a celebrity or have money or have the paparazzi following you around to be famous.

I don’t like to share my personal life… it wouldn’t be personal if I shared it.

Despite the aweful paparazzi drama that people seem to believe, i am still just like you...i obsess over hot guys, get told what to do, and go to school. Believe what you want, but i am NORMAL...whatever that means :)

It is possibly worth mentioning at this point that Mr. Young thought that paparazzi was a kind of Italian linoleum.

On the track, I can escape the paparazzi, the groupies … my demons. The only fear I have is that which I’ve created for myself, that I can control with a swerve of the wheel or a press of the pedal …

He was a reporter for The Adversary. It was his job to stalk people. He was one step above paparazzi and a couple below common variety garden snake." - Jae-Sun Fields, pg. 28

Paparazzi arrived for Hugh [Grant]. We had to stand under a tree and smile for them. Photographer: 'Hugh, could you look less -- um --' Hugh: 'Pained?

But nowadays everybody's a comedian, even the weather girls and continuity announcers. We laugh at everything. Not intelligently anymore, not with sudden shock, astonishment, or revelation, just relentlessly and meaninglessly. No more rain showers in the desert, just mud and drizzle everywhere, occasionally illuminated by the flash of paparazzi.

Prom was more about acting out some weird facsimile of adulthood: dress up like a tacky wedding party, hold hands and behave like a couple even if you've never dated, and observe the etiquette of Gilded Age debutantes thrust into modern celebrity: limos, red carpets and a constant stream of paparazzi, played by parents, teachers, and hired photo hacks.

Zeke and I struggled to get to the dressing room so we could get changed. But we were mobbed by people who wanted to congratulate us and tell us how talented and terrific we were.

I have a confession,” Kai mumbled into her hair. She tilted her head to peer at him. “Careful. There could be paparazzi hiding behind these trees. Any confessions might end up on tomorrow’s newsfeeds.” He pretended to consider this for a moment, eyes twinkling, before he said, “I could live with that.” She

Prom was more about acting out some weird facsimile of adulthood: dress up like a tacky wedding party, hold hands and behave like a couple even if you’ve never dated, and observe the etiquette of Gilded Age debutantes thrust into modern celebrity: limos, red carpets, and a constant stream of paparazzi, played by parents, teachers, and hired photo hacks.

Get a load of this one... I heard that she actually thought paparazzi was the last name of one particular Italian photographer. Apparently she said something like, 'Who is this Paparazzi guy and why didn't they arrest him years ago after he killed Princess Diana?

At the end, you find the beginning.

Whatever happens next, I'm sure it's going to be a great adventure.

Now it was as if everybody had become their own fan. Everybody was their own paparazzi.

Beautiful things demand touch. Hence the taped floors at art museums and the roped boundaries between paparazzi and celebrities on red carpets.

Any luck finding me a house?” “I have four or five that are up your alley. I’ll bring sheets on them tomorrow.” “Make sure you get one with a yard. And find out the city code on owning a chicken.” There was a long silence on the other end. The man had organized sex parties, bribed paparazzi, and given Cole his pee for a studio drug test, yet this is what gave him pause.

If you look into somebody's soul by accident, you feel a bit embarrassed about cashing in.

Once I saw Paris Hilton leaving a restaurant in Hollywood and the paparazzi cameras were all over her. It looked so unpleasant. It wasn't because she didn't look sensational - she was that perfect combination of fashionable and slutty - it was because the paparazzi guys were shouting these insanely rude and intrusive questions at her. Like, asking her who she was sleeping with and stuff. I was kind of interested in the answer, so I was glad they asked, but it was still gross.

I sat down at his tombstone, and I cried out everything within me. I cried until I felt depleted. I did not say a single thing. I did not feel any need. I had talked to Harry in my head and my heart for so long, for so many years, that it felt as if we transcended words. He had been the one to help me, to support me, through everything in my life. And now I needed him more than ever. So I went to him the only way I knew how. I let him heal me as only he could. And then I stood up, dusted off my skirt, and turned around. There, in the trees, were two paparazzi taking my photo. I was neither angry nor flattered. I simply didn’t care. It cost so much, caring. I didn’t have any currency to spend on it.

I'm a teenager, and we mess up sometimes.

A paparazzi is merely an extremely nosy nobody with a camera—and bills to pay.

Gain fame, and the paparazzi or media waits and watches for them to slip, just to shame their name.

If paparazzi armed with telephoto lenses have long been the scourge of the rich and famous; civilian drones are fast becoming the new menace to the ordinary man on the street.

How about we really steal Brittany's thunder by giving the London paparazzi an exclusive?" "What sort of exclusive?" "Let's show them how much I love Morgan Abbot." "Love?" Was I really hearing this? "You... are in love with me?" "Totally. One hundred percent head over heels in love with you, Morg. Have been ever since you led me on that goofy chase around the White House.

You're supposed to raise your friends up, not be happy when they fail.

I was used to being disliked, but nothing prepared me for being mobbed by paparazzi as I was coming out of a restaurant, having them casually ask things like “How do you feel about the fact that people think you’re a whore?

I’m space paparazzi now. The attitude comes with the job.

Only in absolute silence could he simply exist and not be reminded of who and what he was, or according to his critics, who and what he wasn’t. But finding a space that wasn’t dominated by the commotion of a television set, the rapid clicks of paparazzi cameras, or the murmuring of a hungry crowd was very rare.

Sometimes you have to control your own life and to do that you have to put your own needs first.

Change happens whether you want it to or not. And sometimes, like now, it's for the best.

Memory is just an alternate version of reality.

But any idiot can see you two are gaga for one another.” As in Lady Gaga? Because I do enjoy riding Wade’s disco stick and playing our own version of poker face. And even though I’m terrified we’ll wind up having a bad romance, leaving me to just dance while watching Wade ride off into the sunset with Alejandro as the paparazzi followed in a frenzy, I can’t seem to stop myself from loving him. I shook the nonsense out of my head.

The hover swooped to the edge of the street. The magnets hummed as it lowered itself to the ground. "Shall I wait here for your return?" "Please," he said, threading his arms through the sleeves and tugging up the zipper. "I shouldn't be long." He considered giving a specific time - If I'm not back in an hour, then I've probably been cornered by paparazzi and screaming girls and you should send the royal security squad after me. But even thinking it made him feel melodramatic, so he just pulled the hood over his brow and stepped out of the hover, dragging Nainsi's pear-shaped body after him.

Being discreet has never been your strong suit.

You never know what you'll find out about yourself when you stretch outside your comfort zone.

Reality television makes stars of ordinary people, and the paparazzi’s long lenses make ordinary people out of stars.

Not a ridiculous amount, like the paparazzi on Taylor Swift ca. 2016.

Mrs. Hargrove has arranged for paparazzi to be here tonight. She tipped the photographers off to the location of a dinner that Fred arranged for us on New Year’s Eve, too.

As she would later admit, she ‘occasionally set up a paparazzi photo or let info slip out to the press’.135

Mrs. Shah was a media favorite and the paparazzi loved her but only because she could be entertainingly obnoxious with her potty mouth and caustic mannerisms

This must be how Jesus felt before they put him on the cross," Lucy said. "Surrounded by paparazzi and sex workers.

What Kate wore, whether on the street or the red carpet was much cooler to them than what she modelled. Her paparazzi photos were becoming indistinguishable from her editorials.

Funny,” Venkat said. “Be a smart-ass to a guy seven levels above you at your company. See how that works out.” “Oh no,” Mindy said. “I might lose my job as an interplanetary voyeur? I guess I’d have to use my master’s degree for something else.” “I remember when you were shy.” “I’m space paparazzi now. The attitude comes with the job.” “Yeah, yeah,” Venkat said. “Just send the e-mail.” “Already sent.

I also really liked God, or at least the idea of God as he was presented to me, because God was a little bit of a queen, too.* I mean, think about it: He sits up in heaven on a gold-ass throne with a bunch of baroque naked babies flying around him and demands that you worship him and sing him lots of songs or else he will destroy your entire city and kill all your relatives. Talk about a diva. I mean, like, the Old Testament is pretty much just a litany of all the times God threw a diva tantrum in his dressing room because one of his fans coughed during his performance. He’s like Naomi Campbell constantly throwing his phone at the paparazzi (by the way, I support you, Naomi).

I will arrange for you to be snapped by paparazzi eating a bowl of wonton noodles at a dai pai dong.* This will do wonders for your image, and I can already picture the headline: “Social Goddess Unafraid to Dine with the Masses.

Images are taking over, and writers are a dying breed. The Norman Mailers of today are reduced to writing pun-filled captions for paparazzi photos. Blogs--which were threatening enough to professional writers--are being replaced by video blogs. We writers need to embraced the Second Commandment as our rallying cry for the importance of words. In a literally biblical world, all publications would look like the front page of the Wall Street Journal. Or the way it used to look, anyway.

It’s not the kind of smile that would alert the paparazzi, but it’s the kind of smile that a person could hold onto. The kind that could make, say, a man in a tough spot hope that things could turn around again. Like an anchor. A safe space to land.

It is an amazing gift to be able to recognize that the things that make you the happiest are so much easier to grasp than you thought. There is such freedom in being able to celebrate and appreciate the unique moments that recharge you and give you peace and joy. Sure, some people want red carpets and paparazzi. Turns out I just want banana Popsicles dipped in Malibu rum. It doesn't mean I'm a failure at appreciating the good things in life. It means I'm successful in recognizing what the good things in life are for m

Back then there was this wonderful thing called “twilight sleep” where women were given anesthesia at the onset of labor and woke up with a baby. Today “twilight sleep” is when you pass out on your bed while looking at paparazzi photos of Robert Pattinson eating an omelet.

David: “How the hell did you get dressed so fast?” Renee: “How do you know I didn’t streak naked through the lobby and had clothes waiting for me in the car?” David: “Heh. Good thing the archaeological paparazzi didn’t have a team on duty.” Renee: “I’d have taken ’em out. My whole body is a weapon.

Voleva mostrare al mondo i lati opposti della città che non dormiva mai. Voleva raccontare la sua storia attraverso i propri occhi, le proprie lenti. Molte persone avevano cercato di fare lo stesso. Nessuno aveva mostrato il lato davvero oscuro che si celava dietro i musical della classe media e delle celebrità che ammiccavano con falsi sorrisi ai paparazzi. O forse ce n’erano stati altri. Ma a lui non importava. Non voleva farlo per gli altri ma per sé. Comunque non aveva nessuno, a parte Rafe, a cui mostrare le foto. In ogni caso voleva farlo bene. Nonno Kevan aveva immortalato la sua vita con la macchina fotografica; era tempo che Pierce fotografasse la sua.

I had built a life where nothing failed expectations—bills were paid, heaters kept heating, roofs never leaked. We could be framed and shot by the Good Housekeeping paparazzi, and they would never catch a brick out of place, a shrub overgrown, or our boys in shoes or pants a half size too small. Our life was perfect, until I ruined everything.

But nowadays everybody’s a comedian, even the weather girls and continuity announcers. We laugh at everything. Not intelligently anymore, not with sudden shock, astonishment, or revelation, just relentlessly and meaninglessly. No more rain showers in the desert, just mud and drizzle everywhere, occasionally illuminated by the flash of paparazzi.

All truly famous people wish fame had a switch.

New year, a new chapter and new possiblities

You need to take control of your own destiny.

Because marriage is supposed to make you happy, not make you feel like a rat trapped in a very glamorous cage with twenty-thousand dollar silk draperies.

What can you possibly say about Rome? That it's eternal? That all roads lead to it? That it wasn't built in a day? That when there you should do as the locals do? Please. For millennia, Rome has embodied and repelled every cliché, description, and act of comprehension or explanation applied to it. As a city, it has been built and destroyed and rebuilt by - and has celebrated and signified and outlasted - caesars and barbarians and popes and Fascists and prophets and artists and pilgrims and schemers and migrants and lovers and fools.

On the day Princess Diana died, a group of students had gathered before a lecture, talking about what they had heard on the radio that morning, repeating “paparazzi” over and over, all sounding knowing and cocksure, until, in a lull, Okoli Okafor quietly asked, “But who exactly are the paparazzi? Are they motorcyclists?” and instantly earned himself the nickname Okoli Paparazzi

Sidney: The woman took a seat to reorganize, and Lucy cataloged an almost perfectly symmetrical face with cheekbones that could part hair. The woman's pale face hid underneath the lip-gloss and mascara that ran interference, distracting onlookers from a sagging spirit. She was dressed in a baggie sweater and jeans that made her look like a casual starlet waiting for the paparazzi to snap her photo.

We journeyed from different corners of the country to be there. We came together for her. Because we loved her. In a hundred different ways we adored her. We wanted her light to shine on us. We wanted to make it special for her, so she’d see how much we loved her. At a hen party, the bride-to-be takes on an almost celestial, golden status. That weekend, she was the celebrity, and we were her fans and paparazzi.

I have one thing on my mind, and it’s to get that fucker off Ollie immediately. Not that it really matters, but Sarah’s betrayal was private, unseen—thank fuck. But if Ollie is photographed with another guy so soon into our “relationship”, it will be very, very public. Let’s be real, Silas. This has nothing to do with paparazzi. Okay, Ollie might not be mine, but she isn’t going to be someone else’s, that’s for damn sure. Mine.

I knew this side of Nixon wouldn’t stay at the surface for long, that it was only visible because he was fresh out of rehab. Because he was sober. Because there weren’t paparazzi and models and half-naked groupies in his dressing room. I knew it was temporary, but instead of scaring me, it only made me feel like this glimpse of what he could be was private…precious. And God help me, I wanted it to be permanent. I wanted him to be real.

Il successo non è camminare sul tappeto rosso e avere i paparazzi sempre al collo, il successo è un participio passato, è un verbo che semplicemente le dice: è successo! Qualcosa è successo. È possibile! È la dimostrazione che è possibile far succedere le cose, far andare la vita dove vuoi tu. È successo può essere anche solo riuscire a coltivare un bell'orto, o dipingere la casa del colore che vuoi tu, o riuscire a girare l'Europa a piedi. Il successo è solo e soltanto far succedere le cose. Lei si prepari, perché si vede benissimo che ne farà succedere tante.

Fame had kept me from getting laid that night. Fame would make it so other people would bother me, follow me around with cameras, be all up in my shit, keep me from doing what I wanted to do when I wanted to do it. Fame could even potentially kill me. It killed a lot of people: John Lennon, Princess Diana, Selena.

MINDY READ the Morse code aloud. “ROLLED. FIXING NOW.” “What? That’s it?” Venkat said over the phone. “That’s all he said,” she reported, cradling the phone as she typed out an e-mail to the list of interested parties. “Just three words? Nothing about his physical health? His equipment? His supplies?” “You got me,” she said. “He left a detailed status report. I just decided to lie for no reason.” “Funny,” Venkat said. “Be a smart-ass to a guy seven levels above you at your company. See how that works out.” “Oh no,” Mindy said. “I might lose my job as an interplanetary voyeur? I guess I’d have to use my master’s degree for something else.” “I remember when you were shy.” “I’m space paparazzi now. The attitude comes with the job.” “Yeah, yeah,” Venkat said. “Just send the e-mail.” “Already sent.

Mindy read the Morse code aloud. "ROLLED. FIXING NOW." "What? That's it?" Venkat said over the phone. "That's all he said," she reported, cradling the phone as she typed out an e-mail list of interest parties. "Just three words? Nothing about his physical health? His equipment? His supplies?" "You got me," she said. "He left a detailed status report. I just decided to lie for no reason." "Funny," Venkat said. "Be a smart-ass to a guy seven levels above you at your company. See how that works out." "Oh no," Mindy said. "I might lose my job as an interplanetary voyeur? I guess I'd have to use my master's degree for something else." "I remember when you were shy." "I'm the space paparazzi now. The attitude comes with the job." "Yeah, yeah," Venkat said. "Just send the e-mail." "Already sent.

Despite how progressive America claimed to be, there was still a sexist double standard quietly underpinning everything. She and Jeff were proof of it, like in those scientific studies where they treated twin babies the same except for one key variable, then tracked how it affected them. The variable here was that Jeff was a boy and Sam was a girl, and even when they did the exact same thing, people reacted to them differently. If the paparazzi caught Jeff on an expensive shopping spree, he was splurging for a special occasion, while Samantha was spoiled. If pictures surfaced of Jeff visibly drunk and stumbling out of a bar, he was blowing off some much-needed steam. Samantha was a wild party girl. If Jeff talked back to the paparazzi, he was simply being firm, protecting his privacy. Samantha was a ruthless bitch.

When people become famous, they are often objectified, discussed, and ridiculed with little consideration for who they are as people. Fans and critics feel as though they have the right to comment on everything celebrities do with little regard to the costs that those in the crosshairs of attention will bear. The cost that celebrities pay for the supposed benefits of being rich and famous is ongoing scrutiny and a lack of privacy. Most people do not understand or appreciate the pressure that results from fame, even though public meltdowns—such as the night that Britney Spears shaved her head in front of numerous photographers—are highly publicized. The public’s obsession with obtaining information about the famous puts serious pressure on those people’s lives, as the paparazzi’s role in Princess Diana’s death so brutally reminds us.20 Few people have sympathy for the kinds of stress that gossip places on public figures who have high status and wealth. At a distance, famous people seem invulnerable.

Maybe that’s his game, though,” I said. “The hunt for one soul, again and again.” “Then why are you still here?” “The other women lived with him for a long time too. Maybe he wants to wait until my defenses are down, and then-“ “Wow, Clea, you are so jaded. You found your soulmate. People wait their whole lives for this. It’s the most amazing thing in the world, and it’s happened to you. Can’t you just accept it and be happy?” What she said made sense, but… I flopped back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Without looking at Rayna, I said, “He doesn’t act like he’s my soulmate. Sometimes I think maybe he liked the other women more. I think maybe he wishes I was one of them.” Rayna was silent. This was something I’d never heard. “This is seriously, deep,” she finally said. “You’re feeling insecure because you’re jealous…of yourself.” “I didn’t say I was jealous…” “You’d rather think he’s a serial killer than risk being with him and finding out he doesn’t like you as much as he liked…you?” She scrunched her brow and thought, then tried again. “Yous? Anyway, you know what I mean-the other yous.” “Forget the jealousy thing, okay? There are other reasons to doubt him too. Ben doesn’t trust him at all. He thinks Sage is some kind of demon. He said there’s a spirit called an incubus that comes to women in their sleep, and-“ “Of course Ben said that.” Rayna shrugged. “He’s jealous.” “Of what?” “Ben’s crazy in love with you, Clea. I’ve been saying that forever!” “And I’ve been ignoring you forever, because it’s not true. You just want it to be true because it’s romantic.” “Did you not see the pictures of you from Rio?” I narrowed my eyes. “What are you talking about?” Rayna pulled out her phone. “Honestly, I don’t know how you survive without Google Alerts on yourself. The paparazzi were out in full force for Carnival.” She played with the phone for a minute, then handed it to me. It showed a close-up of Ben and me at the Sambadrome that could only have been taken with a serious zoom. I felt violated. “I hate this,” I muttered. “Why? You look cute!” “I hate that people are sneaking around taking pictures of me!” “I know you do. Ignore that for the moment. Just scroll through.” There were five pictures of Ben and me. Four of them were moments I vividly remembered, pictures of the two of us facing each other, laughing as we did our best to imitate the dancers shimmying and strutting down the parade route. The fifth one I didn’t remember. I wouldn’t have; in it I had my camera up to my face and was concentrating on lining up the perfect shot. Ben stood behind me, but he wasn’t wearing the goofy smile he’d had in the other pictures. He was staring right at me with those big puppydog eyes, and his smile wasn’t goofy at all, but… “Uh-huh,” Rayna said triumphantly. She had climbed into my bed was looking at the picture over my shoulder. “Knew that one would stop you. There is only one word for the look on that boy’s face, Clea: love-struck. Which is probably why a bunch of websites are reporting he’s about to propose.” “What?” “Messenger. Don’t kill the messenger.” I looked back at the picture. Ben did look love-struck. Very love-struck. “It could just be the picture,” I said. “They caught him at a weird moment.” “Yeah, a weird moment when he thought no one was looking so he showed how he really felt.” I gave Rayna back the phone and shook my head. “Ben and I are like brother and sister. That’s gross.” “Hey, I read Flowers in the Attic. It was kind of hot.” “Shut up!” I laughed. “I’m just saying, think about it. Really think about it. Is it that hard to believe that Ben’s in love with you?

In February, after not getting to see the boys for weeks and weeks, completely beside myself with grief, I went to plead to see them. Kevin wouldn't let me in. I begged him. Jayden James was five months old and Sean Preston was seventeen months old. I imagined their not knowing where their mother was, wondering why she didn't want to be with them. I wanted to get a battering ram to get to them. I didn't know what to do. The paparazzi watched it all happen. I can't describe the humiliation I felt. I was concerned. I was out being chased, like always, by these men waiting for me to do something they could photograph. And so that night I gave them some material. I went into a hair salon, and I took the clippers, and I shaved off all my hair. Everyone thought it was hilarious. Look how crazy she is! Even my parents acted embarrassed by me. But nobody seemed to understand that I was simply out of my mind with grief. My children had been taken away from me. With my head shaved, everyone was scared of me, even my mom. No one would talk to me anymore because I was too ugly. My long hair was a big part of what people liked-I knew that. I knew a lot of guys thought long hair was hot. Shaving my head was a way of saying to the world: Fuck you. You want me to be pretty for you? Fuck you. You want me to be good for you? Fuck you. You want me to be your dream girl? Fuck you. I'd been the good girl for years. I'd smiled politely while TV show hosts leered at my breasts, while American parents said I was destroying their children by wearing a crop top, while executives patted my hand condescendingly and second-guessed my career choices even though I'd sold millions of records, while my family acted like I was evil. And I was tired of it. At the end of the day, I didn't care. All I wanted to do was see my boys. It made me sick thinking about the hours, the days, the weeks I missed with them. My most special moments in life were taking naps with my children, That's the closest I've ever felt to God-taking naps with me precious babies, smelling their hair, holding their tiny hands.

they come to LA aspirting to be white. Even the ones who are biologically white aren't white white. Valet parking white. Brag about your Native American, Argentinian, Portuguese ancestry white. Pho white. Paparazzi white. I once got fired from a telemarketing job, now look at m, I'm famous white. Calabazas white. I love L.A. It's the only place where you can go skiing, to the beach and to the desert all in one day white.

Reed spread his arms again, as if to signify his near nakedness. “Do you see any paparazzi here, Tuck? I’m not wearing a wire, and where the hell would I hide a camera in this getup? It’s you, it’s me, it’s a pair of wet boxers. What’s the worst that could happen?” Tucker sighed. The minute Reed suggested it, he knew he was going to strip down to his skivvies and slip quietly into the clear, tempting pool.

My Road to Recovery'? I heard myself suggest, and it struck me, not for the first time, that the tone we journalists adopt can be horribly flip. Several times. over the course of my career, I've caught myself skimming over the surface of a subject's life, without pausing to reflect on the realities of their joys and suffering. Yet it was true that something about George's disintegration mesmerised people. Which would sell more papers, I wondered: his redemption or his failure?

When I started out, you lot decided I was God. I remember first seeing the word 'godlike' written in a paper about me. I didn't know how to handle it at all - how could I?

In the panic, I forgot.’ ‘Forgot what?’ ‘Conditioner.’ ‘The paparazzi will know. It’ll be all over the papers in the morning.

Blood // Water - Grandson Evil - 8 Graves 11 Minutes - Yungblud Ft. Halsey & Travis Barker Hate The Way - G-Eazy Ft. Blackbear Control - Halsey Play With Fire - Sam Tinnesz You Should See Me In A Crown - Billie Eilish Everybody Wants To Rule The World - Lorde Courage To Change - Sia You Broke Me First - Tate McRae Yellow Flicker Beat - Lorde Sweet Dreams - Marilyn Manson Wicked Game - Daisy Gray Nobody’s Home - Avril Lavigne Stand By Me - Ki: Theory Paparazzi - Kim Dracula Bringing Me Down - Ki: Theory Ft. Ruelle Therefore I am - Billie Eilish I see Red - Everybody Love An Outlaw In The Air Tonight - Nonpoint Tainted Love - Marilyn Manson Saviour - Daisy Gray I Put A Spell On You - Annie Lennox Heaven Julia Michaels Heart Attack - Demi Lovato Dynasty - MIIa Weak - AJR Redemption - Besomorph & Coopex & RIELL Legends Never Die - League of Legends Ft. Against the Current Time - NF Rumors - NEFFEX

Blood // Water - Grandson Evil - 8 Graves 11 Minutes - Yungblud Ft. Halsey & Travis Barker Hate The Way - G-Eazy Feat Blackbear Control - Halsey Play With Fire - Sam Tinnesz You Should See Me In A Crown - Billie Eilish Everybody Wants To Rule The World - Lorde Courage To Change - Sia You Broke Me First - Tate McRae Yellow Flicker Beat - Lorde Sweet Dreams - Marilyn Manson Wicked Game - Daisy Gray Nobody’s Home - Avril Lavigne Stand By Me - Ki: Theory Paparazzi - Kim Dracula Bringing Me Down - Ki: Theory (feat. Ruelle) Therefore I am - Billie Eilish I see Red - Everybody Love An Outlaw In The Air Tonight - Nonpoint Tainted Love - Marilyn Manson Saviour - Daisy Gray I Put A Spell On You - Annie Lennox Heaven Julia Michaels Heart Attack - Demi Lovato Dynasty - Mia Weak - AJR Redemption - Besomorph & Coopex & RIELL Legends Never Die - League of Legends & Against the Current Time - NF Rumors - NEFFEX

I know the reason not to shout from the rooftops that I'm madly in love with Sally is that that would be baiting the paparazzi. But to be clear, I'm madly in love with Sally.

There was, he said, something pervasive going on that was changing the tone and character of the national discourse. An obsession with celebrity, epitomized by paparazzi chasing down stars such as Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton, was becoming ubiquitous. Magazines and newspapers that “purport to be responsible organs” were making “these pompous and condescending decisions about lives, about facts and situations.” Where did that lead? As Marlon explained later, “I was concerned that the freedoms enshrined by the First Amendment were being misused to create a press that faced no consequences for diminishing the intelligence of the nation.

In a world of fame, followers, likes and paparazzi, we need to aspire to be something other than popular.

His gaze lowered to her mouth. "I don't think you understand my limitations." "You're not open to a relationship. Is that the limitation you're talking about?" He nodded, but kept staring at her lips as though they were all he could really think about. "Consider me warned," she said and slid her hand around his neck to bring his head down to hers.

but the stupefying realization that the paparazzi who chased her car into Paris’s Alma tunnel did nothing to help her. “She was still very much alive in the backseat,” Harry later said, “and those same people that caused the accident, instead of helping, were taking photographs of her while she was dying. They just stood there and watched her die. I will never forgive them.” William agreed.

Operation Paget would lumber on for two years before finally issuing its 832-page report confirming the findings of the original investigation in France: that the driver of the car in which Dodi and Diana were passengers on the night of August 31, 1997, was drunk; that paparazzi contributed to the crash; and that all three people who died that night failed to buckle up.

It was 1992, and the Knicks were hosting their first annual summer camp for youngsters. Like many camps with professional teams, the club wanted to have one of its players make an appearance for a day. Not someone like Ewing, a star who had too many demands on his time already. But not someone from the end of the bench, either. So they asked Mason—basically still new to the NBA—if he’d appear for $1,500. The forward said yes, and the team provided him with a limousine to the camp that day. Mason had his window rolled down as the vehicle arrived, and the kids hovered around it like paparazzi, wanting to catch a glimpse of him up close. Yet Mason stayed in the car. First for two minutes. Then five. Then almost fifteen. Finally Ed Tapscott, then the club’s administrative director, came outside. He’d been responsible for Mason’s appearance at the camp that day, and couldn’t figure out why Mason wasn’t making his way inside the gym. “I’m not getting out of the car for anything less than $2,000, bro. And I want cash,” Mason told him. Tapscott figured he was joking at first. But Mason was completely serious. Sure, he’d agreed to the $1,500 figure before, but now—with an army of young, excited kids waiting inside—he had the leverage to play hardball. Tapscott said he wasn’t even sure he could realistically get access to that much cash that soon. “I had to give one of our staffers my ATM card,” he recalls. “What choice did I really have in a situation like that?” With assurance of the pay increase, Mason hopped out. He played in a couple of scrimmages with the children. But, in classic Mason fashion, he couldn’t turn off his competitiveness. While playing, Mason inadvertently elbowed a kid, knocking the child out cold and breaking his nose, which gushed with blood. When the boy regained consciousness, he woke to find a worried Mason hovering over him. The child smiled and asked the Knick to sign his bloody T-shirt. Meanwhile, Tapscott said he and others running the camp were merely happy to escape the situation without the threat of a lawsuit.

I firmly believed paparazzi deserved a special place in hell next to the telemarketers and corrupt politicians.

To avoid the paparazzi,

In May 2005, the same month that Cruise went on Oprah, the world of celebrity changed. Perez Hilton and the Huffington Post launched, with TMZ right behind them, and the rise of the gossip sites pressured the print tabloids to joining them in a 24-hour Internet frenzy. Camera phones finally outsold brick phones, turning civilians into paparazzi. YouTube was a week old, and for the first time a video could go viral overnight.

I have a bad habit... I judge celebrities by their quotes and interviews on IMDb. I have to get out of this habit because I have grown to respect or hate celebrities based on their quotes on IMDb. This is a dangerous habit because agents make up good quotes to make their stars seem better. Paparazzi and internet pranksters make up bad quotes to gain publicity and make a few laughs. In other words, remember one of the most important lessons of life: do not trust everything you read on the internet.

Paris Hilton came in the store occasionally and one day asked me for the song, "Bette Davis Eyes". I found it for her and she proceeded to the front to pay and as the cashier was ringing her up, she was putting on blush. I guess because there was a slew a paparazzi photographers in the parking lot waiting for her to leave the store. It was insane. What is she famous for anyway? I didn't get it then and I still don't get it now. I guess it doesn't matter what I think, I'm just a broke bum living in his van and she's a bazillionaire that people want to take a picture of, I guess she wins!

Piers Morgan Piers Morgan is a British journalist best known for his editorial work for the Daily Mirror from 1995 through 2004. He is also a successful author and television personality whose recent credits include a recurring role as a judge on NBC’s America’s Got Talent. A controversial member of the tabloid press during Diana’s lifetime, Piers Morgan established a uniquely close relationship with the Princess during the 1990s. “What’s been the most upsetting thing you’ve had to read about yourself?” “Well, those pictures the other day of my supposed cellulite upset me a lot actually. It really hurt me. It was too painful, too personal. It’s my body everyone was talking about, not just my face. I felt invaded because they put the cameras deliberately onto my legs.” Diana’s relationship with the paparazzi was obviously complex. She professed to hate them: “I know most of the paparazzi and their number plates. They think I am stupid but I know where they are. I’ve had ten years practice. I would support an antistalking bill tomorrow.” Then she took me to the window and started showing me the various media cars, vans, and motorbikes lurking outside. But when I asked why she doesn’t go out of one of the ten other more discreet exits, she exposed her contrary side: “I want to go out the front like anyone else. Why should I change my life for them?” “Because it would make your life easier?” I said. William was equally upset by the constant prying lenses: “Why do they have to chase my mother around so much? It’s unfair on her.” I was torn between genuine concern for the young man protecting his mum so gallantly, and a sense of foreboding for him that one day it would be him, not his mother, who would be chased just as aggressively. How do you explain to a thirteen-year-old boy that he sells papers and therefor he’s a valuable commodity to photographers and editors like me?

Richard Kay Richard Kay became friends with Diana, Princess of Wales, through his job as royal correspondent for London’s Daily Mail. After her separation in 1992, he used his knowledge to give a penetrating and unique insight into Diana’s troubled life, and they remained friends until the end. Richard is now diary editor or the Daily Mail and lives in London with his wife and three children. Over the years, I saw her at her happiest and in her darkest moments. There were moments of confusion and despair when I believed Diana was being driven by the incredible pressures made on her almost to the point of destruction. She talked of being strengthened by events, and anyone could see how the bride of twenty had grown into a mature woman, but I never found her strong. She was as unsure of herself at her death as when I first talked to her on that airplane, and she wanted reassurance about the role she was creating for herself. In private, she was a completely different person form the manicured clotheshorse that the public’s insatiable demand for icons had created. She was natural and witty and did a wonderful impression of the Queen. This was the person, she told me, that she would have been all the time if she hadn’t married into the world’s most famous family. What she hated most of all was being called “manipulative” and privately railed against those who used the word to describe her. “They don’t even know me,” she would say bitterly, sitting cross-legged on the floor of her apartment in Kensington Palace and pouring tea from a china pot. It was this blindness, as she saw it, to what she really was that led her seriously to consider living in another country where she hoped she would be understood. The idea first emerged in her mind about three years before her death. “I’ve got to find a place where I can have peace of mind,” she said to me. She considered France, because I was near enough to stay in close touch with William and Harry. She thought of America because she--naively, it must be said--saw it as a country so brimming over with glittery people and celebrities that she would be able to “disappear.” She also thought of South Africa, where her brother, Charles, made a home, and even Australia, because it was the farthest place she could think of from the seat of her unhappiness. But that would have separated her form her sons. Everyone said she would go anywhere, do anything, to have her picture taken, but in my view the truth was completely different. A good day for her was one where her picture was not taken and the paparazzi photographers did not pursue her and clamber over her car. “Why are they so obsessed with me?” she would ask me. I would try to explain, but I never felt she fully understood. Millions of women dreamed of changing places with her, but the Princess that I knew yearned for the ordinary humdrum routine of their lives. “They don’t know how lucky they are,” she would say. On Saturday, just before she was joined by Dodi Al Fayed for their last fateful dinner at the Ritz in Pairs, she told me how fed up she was being compared with Camilla. “It’s all so meaningless,” she said. She didn’t say--she never said--whether she thought Charles and Camilla should marry. Then, knowing that as a journalist I often work at weekends, she said to me, “Unplug your phone and get a good night’s sleep.

In Rome, my mother inevitably became a protagonist of the snapshots taken by roaming freelance photographers, later dubbed “paparazzi” after Walter Santesso’s character, Paparazzo, in Fellini’s La Dolce Vita.

The moment you step onto the paparazzi piazza, you need to be prepared for every angle of scrutiny. Get used to it. Not everyone is going to like you.

Wildlife photographer, photojournalist, war correspondent, paparazzi, even portraitist, but life laughs at the plans we make, and the dreams and ambitions of youth quickly morph into the embarrassing memories of adulthood.