"Yesterday I pulled up to one truck and
rolled down my window," she says, leaning in. "I go, 'Let me just
ask, this is every day? Every day now? Is there a way we could make
this a little bit saner?' It's just not human to walk around with twenty cars
following you—there's no ease. Maybe they do want you to get all Mariah Carey on
yourself and be put into an institution. I miss the days when they hid in the
bushes."
There's an edge to the way Aniston jokes about
the public's obsession with her life, especially when she describes the ill
will she harbors for the anonymous parasites who chronicle the burgers she
eats, the gas she pumps, the trash she takes out. At one point, I mention that
one of the guys out front has a ladder in the back of his 4Runner. "That's
illegal!" she snaps. The ladder, if used to peep over her towering hedges,
would violate California privacy law. "I hope he hits something." She
pauses, realizing how that sounds. "It's terrible when you wish horrible
things on other human beings."
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