Star Fucked.

I don’t care to be famous. Long as credit is given where it’s due I’m good. I’ll take money over notoriety on most days ending in “Y”. A fan may want to take a picture with you, but honey, they ain’t gonna pay for your Invisalign. I’m a living, breathing, walking contradiction though. I say I don’t want to be famous, yet I have day dreams about book signings where I’m riding down the escalator at Barnes & Nobles from the third floor to see screaming fans in line for me. And don’t even get me started on the speech I envision myself giving when I win an Oscar for “Best Film” when one of my best-sellers gets turned into a movie. I am hella funny.

Some people were meant to be in the limelight. They’re not attention whores, they just end up with all the attention. I have a few friends like this, thank God. Otherwise, I’d have to actually wait in line at clubs and pay for drinks. The truth is, I’d make a lousy famous person. The following are a few reasons why.

1. I make ugly faces. No, like real ugly faces. Not the “ugly faces” a pretty girl makes, because she knows she still looks pretty making them. Just last week, my boy text me a pic from the Fillmore Jazz Festival asking if it was OK to post it (God bless him). If he had posted it to begin with I wouldn’t have went ape shit begging him to take it down, but since he asked, I opted for no. My fucking mouth was so wide open, one could see my soul if they stood close enough. Fuck all of that.

2. IDGAF. And not in a “bad bitch” Rihanna way either. I mean, I leave the house in sweats. No makeup. Hair looking like a bad weave trying to escape the premises. And if I’m just going to grab some morning coffee, I may not even brush my teeth. Shit like this is not kosher when you are famous and cameras are on you 24-7. It’s how headlines of drug addiction begin to circulate.

3. I’m too nice. I once heard that Bon Jovi stayed hours after a concert to make sure everyone waiting got his autography. I already can’t say no, what more when I have money and cousins cousins from every province of the Philippines start to hit me up talking ’bout they need some new Nikes? Not that I can sing, but if I ever became a pop superstar, I’d be the bitch that’s late to her next show, because she was still taking pictures with fans from the previous show. Why? Because I care too much, which brings me to …

4) I care too much.  I’m an artist, so you best believe I am sensitive about my shit. I care what people think about me. Especially, when they assume. My feelings get fucking hurt, sorry I’m not sorry. You know how you can’t please everyone? I’m the asshole that wants to please everyone! As someone with an embarrassing obsession for pop-culture, I read celebrity gossip sites everyday. And some of the shit people say on the internet about people they don’t even know is RIDICULOUS. People actually hate Kim Kardashian and Justin Bieber like they killed their puppy or something. If I was famous, I’d never leave the confines of my home and have my internet and TV screened.

5) I be wildin out. Don’t get it twisted boo-boo, I may get drunk but I don’t get sloppy. Still, I am a problem sober. What more when the liquid courage kicks in and I start making friends with the employees at AT&T Park? Do you know how many times I say the words “cock” and “balls” at the dinner table? Too many times to be printed in one US Weekly article. And when I’m not dancing in a Las Vegas fountain, I’m boring as fuck. The last three things that got me excited were: Springbreakers on Redbox, discovering that my mom had an egg separator and baking flaxseed banana muffins. When Timmy hit that nono the other week my friend called me saying, “This bitch is either smanging in the streets, or in her pajamas. You don’t have a middle”. Fucking bitch is right. And FYI, I was in my jammies. Plaid polka dot ones at that. #turndownforwhat? R&B Divas LA and cookie butter, that’s what.

6) Uh, haven’t you heard? I’m awkward as fuck. There’s no way in hell I’d make it down a red carpet without tripping in my heels or walking forehead first into an E! network camera lens. I also can’t talk to handsome beings of the opposite sex, so to be in the same vicinity as Channing Tatum, Idris Elba, and Hugh Jackman would absolutely cripple me. Shit, I’d probably lose all motor skills walking by Megan Fox. I’m also a horrible speaker. That’s why I write. I’d be a PR persons worst nightmare.

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