Why I could never be famous.

Eight grade. I played Martin Luther King at Martin Luther King middle school at our annual black history month play. With my squeaking voice, I yelled the “I have a dream speech” with gansta vigor. I got a stand ovation. It felt good. Everyone told me how good I was. Somehow the local news station wanted to do a piece on me. I hadn’t gotten that much attention since I burned down my grandmother’s house when I was seven years old. It was an accident. I was playing with matches and the curtain caught on fire. I agreed to the interview. That night, I got to see myself on television. I wasn’t impressed, neither was any member of my family. My family consisted of a bunch of criminals, so any attention brought to my last name usually brought cops with it.
The next day at school, Suddenly I was on everyone’s radar. I would walk down the hall and people who tell me how great I was. Two weeks later, it started to get on my nerves. It was just a damn speech.
I never liked attention until I started drinking. I always considered myself quiet, reserved, standoffish. I don’t usually make friends unless I have some type of agenda. I feel the need to control everything in my life. It makes me feel safe.
Fame today is not like it used to be. It’s not an easy turn on and turn off button. Fame today should be called stalking. It’s like a vampire looking for new blood. You don’t have to want it to get it anymore. You just have to do something stupid like get caught getting arrested for pissing in somebody’s front yard one drunken night. And suddenly you are on YouTube and some idiot’s blog. And people will write comments. Maybe you get a call from a has-been late night show.
I told my ex that I wanted to be a comedian. He laughed. That wasn’t a joke. He said I could never be around people in a large setting. He said the second someone didn’t laugh at my jokes I would probably throw my mic at the idiot.
I can never be famous. But I have a short temper. I am constantly putting my foot in my mouth. I have way too many naked pics of myself. I am not political. I don’t care.
Fame is like a parole office. You’re in prison and if you ever want to get out, you must play the game.
I loved it when Britney and Whitney Houston went crazy. When the pressure of being fed off by fame finally revealed its ugly head and we finally saw the starved souls. And once they were naked, people wanted more. They lights got brighter. It wasn’t until they realized they were in prison that they understood the game. A fifteen year old Louisiana girl once just wanted to be a pop star. She had no idea why she would wish for something so evil. Vampires are always seductively attractive. Fame, it’s just want more blood.
But some people want it so bad, but it never wants them. Funny how fame doesn’t want desperate or obvious. It wants virgin, the unsuspecting like it needs ignorance to remain young.
I tried to be an actor when I was nineteen years old. I did a few commercials but I quit. I couldn’t stop pissing myself. I would stand in front of the camera, the director would yell “Action” I would start squirting miniscule drops of piss. It wasn’t noticeable because I sometimes wear three pair of underwear. I never understood. I was never a bed wetter. It was the fame. Me looking directly in front of the camera was like looking into the soul of a monster. It made me piss myself.
So I started drinking. Problem solved. And then I realized why lots of artists become addicts. And then it suddenly hit me. I could never be famous. Yet, I could become one hell of an alcoholic.