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.

Don’t be yourself.

Sitting on the toilet flipping through some asinine magazine I paused at the headline “Are you the type of person who lights up the room when you enter or leave? “ I chuckled. I didn’t know. I never really thought about it. I wondered if I cared. I mean, people smiled at me politely when I entered most rooms or conversations. I had no fear of being avoided. I mean, did I really care. Fuck, I flushed what was a regretful lunch. I thought, I was most likely the latter. I was an asshole before I was an asshole, then I started drinking.

Most people say be you. I say fuck that. I say be somebody else. Be somebody cool. Be a politician. Don’t drink too much in public. Agree with everything. Be a follower. Cowards live longer. We wear clothes for a reason. Die a fucking mystery.
The day before I went off to college my eldest sister decided to give me some advice she thought would help me navigate my social life a lot smoother. It was one of those “this is what’s wrong with you” conversations that are often unsolicited and never appreciated. We were sitting on her bedroom floor, sipping banana daiquiris wine-coolers, painting our toe nails whorish red and giggling like Asian school girls when she suddenly paused and got serious. Or maybe her buzz finally kicked in. She looked me directly in my eyes and boldly demanded “don’t be you.”I laughed. I questioned if she had finally reached the limits of my non-conformed masculinity as I blew the paint on my toenails dry. She said when I got to college I should be quiet for the first couple of months. I asked her why. I hadn’t really been known to be egregious. I speak if I have something to say. She said I should try to get along as if I walk through the streets bitch slapping people. That only happened once. I felt my skin go cold. She said I was awkward and made others feel awkward. I asked her was that the reason she hit me in the head with a brick when I was seven years old.

To not be myself. To not be. Maybe that had been the problem my entire life. I wondered who I could be. I like the idea of fakeness. I did want to be one of those people who everyone invited to their parties. The life of the party, not the one who gets drunk and starts insulting people. I wanted to be the person who lit up the room and put smiles on other people faces. I wanted to be that person serial killers instantly wanted to eat their flesh.

Needless to mention, I don’t have many friends. It’s a conscious decision. I get tired of losing them every year. It’s like when I meet someone, it’s just a countdown to how long I can remain sane. Most people irk the shit out of me. I usually hold it in. I don’t tell anyone the truth. I try to avoid an actual opinion on any subject. I don’t care. I can’t be myself. I’ve learned if I am happy, everyone around me is miserable.

I walked back to my desk. I suddenly wanted to test the dim switch how I walked into rooms.

I figured the new receptionist could be my experiment. After all, she was a temp and after a couple of days, I knew I wouldn’t see that bitch again.
As I approached her, I felt like I was in some horrible 80s romantic film. I wasn’t trying to fuck her or anything. I wondered how I would break the ice.

“You have that curse. “ I smiled. I repeated, “You have that curse or maybe it’s a disease.” I thought she would get the joke. Was it a joke? I mean, a curse can sometimes be a disease or monster. She looked confused, mostly annoyed. I smiled. I questioned my motive but I waited until she decided to pursue my argument. She nodded her head. I followed with “I mean, it’s not a bad thing. I guess. I don’t have it. I personally wouldn’t want it.” I created more confusion. Her face soured into a “What the fuck are you talking about you crazy bastard!”

I get that look a lot. More than often. That, “are you okay” look. The last time I was myself, my dentist tried to put me on antipsychotics.

“Don’t be mad.” I wanted to stop the sentence or backspace and delete. I felt my light go brutally black like somebody punched it with their bare fist and the blood ran to the surface and froze to die with oxygen. I told her she had that face that was welcoming. I told her that I just read some fascinating article about people who light up rooms or some bullshit like that. I told her people not only liked to greet her but tell her all their business. Like a bartender but with no drinks. I figured it was a curse. I mean she couldn’t be happy with looking so welcoming. I didn’t want a face like hers. I didn’t want complete strangers telling me about their STDs or infidelities. I thought she laugh. She didn’t. She looked around her personal space for a security guard or pepper spray. I knew she was lingering on the word “curse.” She said she was just being herself.

I felt he light dim as I walked away. Or did it get brighter.

“I fucking hate everybody…”

My first awakening thought that dreadful morning. There was nothing abnormal about me refusing to open my eyes. I fantasized about sleeping myself to death-- suddenly jealous of those people who got to be comatose. I decided that I was not going to move from my bed. I was doing nothing. It was my birthday. The 34th anniversary of my bullshit existence. Life sucked. I had been just fired from a crappy temp job, my landlord abruptly informed me my lease would end at the end of the month with no chance in hell of being renewed, and I was negative broke and single.


I couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to be reminded that they were heading towards death. I wasn’t a child. I knew there would be no mother trying to impress kids of mothers I never see in my adult life. I knew there would be no balloons, a cake with candles, and the forced “happy birthday” song. After, the anniversary of my birth was never really about me. It was always about everybody else but me. It was toasting to the fact I wasn’t aborted. It was about trying to impress teenagers when I was sixteen. When I was twenty one it was about alcohol poisoning. I wondered what I really celebrated everything year in October. I was no Jesus Christ. I didn’t come to save the world, probably the opposite.

My neighbor, the apartment below me hates me. She really hates me. She thinks my existence is some cruel joke to annoy her. I can’t breath without her getting upset. She thinks when I drop the remote control I do it on purpose. She thinks when I move furniture it always awakes her mid-afternoon naps. She thinks I am an alcoholic who sings really loud at inappropriate hours of the day. I give her the latter.

Funny how birthdays are not accepted by everyone. Only a certain few celebrate Hitler’s birthday but everybody gets off work on Martin Luther King’s birthday. We lie to almost every child that they are special, that their birthday is special, that is until that child grows up and proves he or she isn’t worth the placenta their casted after their birth. Life is cruel to the poor.

I didn’t realize what time it was. I had made what I thought was the adult decision not to go out. My last couple of birthdays somehow involved the cops. I thought it was safer for me to just stay home. I had had such a hard week. I’d gotten fired for no legit reason. I knew my lease was not going to be renewed. I was worried about homelessness or even worse, moving back to Texas. I just wanted to grab a bottle of rum and drink myself to sleep. I figure I pass out around midnight. I should’ve known better.

No one should drink alone. No one should drink after breakups or stock market crashes. No one should drink without bail money. It’s like asking for trouble. Life birthdays, no one gives a fuck if you got problems. All they care about is how those problems affect their own bullshit existence.

I heard talking. I heard someone yell my name followed by a knock on my door. I took my headphones off my ears. I couldn’t imagine who in the hell was calling my name. I went to the door. It was the cops. The bitch downstairs had called the cops.

“Do you know what time it is?” the police officer demanded like I was some horny teenager calling his daughter at booty call hours.
“I think it’s midnight.”
“It’s five o’clock in the morning.” I quickly looked at my hallway clock. It was five o’clock in the morning.
“Have you been drinking?” He seemed to laugh at his own question. I had been drink apparently for six hours. Time and worry had gotten away from me.
“Can I have your identification?”

I couldn’t believe that bitch from downstairs called the cops. I wondered why she didn’t come and knock on my door. She did that often. She did it when she needed a mattress carried or help with five pound bags of cat food.

“I see it’s your birthday in two days.”
“I think it is.”
“I’m not going to take you in. Just keep it down.”\
“Thank you.” I took my identification back. I suddenly felt weak in the knees. I wondered what would’ve happened if it wasn't a two days closer to my death. Going to jail on a Saturday meant horror. I wouldn’t had probably gotten out until that Tuesday. I would’ve been in jail because I existed too loud !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!