A Monologue: I Am A "Star"

[Sidebar: This past weekend I took part in an intensive writing seminar at BCC. Over the course of the weekend, I wrote four different pieces - each in about ten minutes. They've been edited (since I can't not edit) but the content is true to my in-the-moment inspiration. Recently, this blog has been dedicated to my lengthy Bachelorette recaps, so I'm happy to post something new. I hope you especially get a kick out of my poetry attempts.]

A Monologue: I Am A "Star"


So I was a guest on Letterman last night. LETTERMAN. He seemed to mock my celebrity, but it's hard to tell with him, ya know?
He was shocked when I told him I require a hundred grand to show up at a club. Hey man, if promoters are willing to pay it, Why not take it?
Do I deserve it?
Have I earned it?
I'm on a semi-scripted, boring-as-hell, reality television show. Truth be told: I hate that fucking show. But it's made me who I am.

Who am I?

I'm famous.

What do I do?

I'm famous.

What is my passion?

F A M E.

Sure, I produced my girlfriend's record; you could call me a producer.
Sure, I directed my girlfriend's video; you could call me a director.
But fuck all that.
I get to produce, I get to direct...
because I. AM. FAMOUS.
My good looks and commitment to my bad attitude gave me my fame, gave me my money.
Why would I opt for legitimacy?
Legitimacy is difficult.
Legitimacy requires talent.
Legitimacy needs credentials, and reputation and respect.
I don't want any of those things.
I want fame; and I want money.
My father... the big deal land developer of the OC...
He could give a fuck that I'm a renegade twat with shit for brains.
He sees me wheeling and dealing on my iPhone, he sees me drive up to his mansion in my brand new Escalade, he sees me pick up the check at the country club.
He sees, and he looks... impressed.
He looks... relieved.
He looks... fortified.
He looks... proud.
He's proud of his nasty, materialistic, illegitimate, talentless wreck of a son, and that's enough for me.
So fuck 'em!
Assholes like Letterman think it's nuts to give me a hundred grand to enter a club?
He's part of that machine that pays for fame, and I'm just a paid cog in the wheel until it breaks me off forever.