Fame

I tried not to write about this. But write I shall!

It’s not a very nice subject.

Fame is useless. I’ve been famous about 15 times in this here life. I don’t recommend it, and, going forward, I think I’m going to wean myself off desiring it. For one single reason: being famous means people think they get to control and harass you.

Human beings are shit. You might think you’re great. Human beings often do. But you probably do what other human beings do: they lok at famous people, and they mock them. They make fun of them; they talk shit about them. Because, for whatever reason, that’s either human fucking nature, or it’s just some sort of weird cultural thing that Americans do. I don’t know and I don’t care. Human beings are not that interesting to me. I’m not studying you.

The end result of this behavior is that, the moment you get famous— and, trust me, you don’t pick, the people you’re going to have to deal with, they pick— all bets are off. Your private life is no longer private. In fact, you become something known as a ‘public figure’; and you don’t even get the libel protections you had as a private citizen. Basically, fuck you; here you go; nobody’s going to help you handle this; nobody likes you, and everybody makes fun of you. Go to Hell.

That’s what Fame’s really like.


I’ve been to the top of the mountain, and it’s only motherfuckers.

When I was a kid, I was thrust into the spotlight at such a velocity that I ended up meeting pretty much every famous reporter you’d ever want to meet. You don’t want to fucking meet these people. You especially don’t want to meet your so-called ‘heroes’. You know that gross shit you do when you’re alone? Or those problematic behaviors that are essentially your personality? Everybody has those. No one is free of sin. Nobody but Dolly Parton and Shirley MacLaine. They’re free of sin. All the rest of you motherfuckers are sinners.

You know the saying, ‘Hell is other people’?

Yes.


This ends here because I’ve spent the majority of my life trying to elongate articles and section them so as to make it easier for people to understand me. Fuck you. I’m not doing that anymore.

You don’t want fame. You want love. You want people to know you, and love you.

That doesn’t fucking exist. Even when it does, think of it like this: I love Dolly Parton. Not romantically; I think she’s a real good person. What the fuck does that do for her? Absolutely nothing.

And if somebody you didn’t know ever loved you like that, it would do nothing for you, either.

Fame-seekers, in my experience, are often people who had fucked-up childhoods, who decided that, if they couldn’t get love anywhere else, they’d seek it from the world. This is not an insult: I’m speaking from fucking experience. One of the reasons people seek fame is because we have a hole in our souls and we’re looking to fill it with cum other people’s approval. I in particular wanted to be recognized for who I was; so I did a bunch of good things, publicly, looking to see if anybody noticed. A few people did. But you’re not getting famous off of being nice. You only get famous off of giving people what they want, and most of the time, you have to be a tremendous cunt to do that.

There’s a quote, usually attributed to Bill Murray, that goes something like this: if you can be rich or famous, be rich, man! Because being famous means you’re saddled with shit you don’t want. Being rich and anonymous is one of the best ways to live your life.

Because, when you’re famous, then you always have to be on for people. People recognize you. And one bad day, one bad encounter, can spiral into rumors: wow, that guy’s an asshole! I asked him for an autograph! And he was like, dude, why are you asking me for an autograph! I hate him now! There are shit-tons of responsibilities that get heaped on you by normies, because they think, oh, she’s famous; she should be able to handle that! And you don’t. You don’t fucking want to. In particular, for a lot of years, I got people venting to me, heaping and piling on their emotional pain to mine, in private. And, usually, if they were a guy, then they’d start asking for nudes or some shit. Do you really fucking want to have to deal with people who come to you in private, because you’re ‘famous’, and have them threaten to kill themselves if you don’t send them nudes of yourself? The whole thing was a fucking chore.

You want to be famous. I get that. Because you want attention. Recently, I’ve been honored twice by an organization that I really love. And that attention felt good.

But with that attention, comes the responsibility, of, now I have to look good. Now I have to watch what I say. Now I have to watch what I write. Now I have to be a pretend-perfect-person for people, because all eyes are on me.

I’m a person who regularly makes jokes about their huge cock on Twitter. I am not the picture-perfect representation of a responsible adult. In fact, I’d say that my personality type is closer to fugitive, vigilante, abject criminal, than it is to Little Ms. Law-Abiding Penitent. I’m a fucking sinner. You are, too. Don’t get nervous. Both our shits smell.

But then, comes the problem of this: if you’re rich— and while I’m not SUPER fucking rich, I could lose everything in one bad month— I have enough money to tip people generously, even and especially in situations where it makes no sense to give them money. I give people money for free because I actually love them and I want to make them happy.

Do you know what that’s given me?

People recognize me on the street now. In the grocery store. Everywhere I go, in real life.

FUCK

I JUST WANTED TO MAKE DICK JOKES ON THE FUCKING INTERNET. I DIDN’T WANT TO FUCKING HAVE RESPONSIBILITIES TO OTHER PEOPLE’S OPINIONS OF ME.

WHERE’S MY BENADRYL