Yeezus Christ! No One Man Should Have All That Power.

I rapped a lot in high school.

There was this one college prep class I took where I, with an eager group depending on me, wrote two raps and killed it in front of the class. I was the next Dr. Dre, the next Snoop Dogg, the next . . . err, well, I would say Kanye West but people don’t seem to like him very much. I got the rap beat for it illegally (shh, don’t tell anyone) and I taught them (kind of) how to sing the chorus line with me. They sounded horrible. I love them, but fuck I hope they never quit their day jobs in pursuit of a music career.

Point is, I got a lot of props for my rapping. I have social anxiety disorder, but that class was only 15 students strong, including me, and I’d known over half of them for four years. A dream class, right? I just think it’s hilarious that I sweat like a heroin addict without a fix trying to order food in a restaurant or give a presentation or walk down the street against traffic where everyone’s eyes judge my half-assed style and yet I managed to make a successful performance of those raps. That was the crowning jewel of my high school career amid thousands of thousands of hellish days.

I know I have an extroverted personality inside, but it’s shrouded by irrational fears of inadequacy, fears of humiliation, fears of criticism, fears of fear, fears of being afraid of fear, and constant ideas that people’s vocal tones, facial expressions, and lack of eye contact all hint towards their hate of me. I love making people laugh, entertaining them, being the “wild” spirit in the group.

Then there are those days where I just can’t handle the feeling of life. The days I curl underneath my blankets and cringe at the chirping bird assholes outside of my window signaling the rise of the sun. Those are the days even the tiniest amount of light is insufferable on my eyes and the sound of someone talking to me is like little daggers teasing my brain by gently stabbing it. That’s when I’m convinced those people outside exist only to make me uncomfortable, that they hate me, and that I should hate myself for thinking that way.

It’s so weird trying to explain my depression when I’m not depressed, so I don’t think I’ll even try. Instead, I’d like to talk about if I were a celebrity.

1). Paparazzi. If some short little snot nosed bitch with a big black camera came walking up to me in the middle of the street screaming questions in my face or flashing lights in my eyes I’d plant my shoe right through their lens. I mean, I know people say “well, if you want to be a celebrity you’re going to subject yourself to the paparazzi”. Yeah, that’s true, but I feel like that’s just giving those people an excuse to be rude little pricks. You don’t run up on someone and shove a camera in their face, I don’t care if you get a hundred thousand dollars per picture. It’s called respect. Get some. I have the right to defend myself and you know what, I might just have a phobia of cameras and feel threatened by their closeness.

2). I would not buy a Rolls Royce Phantom. I saw one dude on MTV cribs (does anyone still remember that show?) who owned a Phantom and when he opened the passenger door and pressed a button, an umbrella shot out.

An umbrella. You paid 500,000 dollars for an umbrella in a door? Throw that shit in the back seat and come down off your high horse, freak. I’d buy myself a Tesla and hope I don’t get electrocuted driving through a puddle.

3). I’d say the stupidest shit. Maybe I wouldn’t have the drunken balls to run up on stage and snatch a microphone from someone but when Kanye looked straight in the camera beside Michael Myers and said very monotonously “George Bush doesn’t like black people” I died. That was hilarious! Forget all the political B.S, all the backlash, all the arguments over whether it was true or not, and stop taking life so seriously; that was comedic gold. If anything, it gave him more publicity and made him richer. So, I mean, say what you want. Each time you mention his name he gets a quarter.

4). I would not name my child North just because my last name is West.

5). I would not carry around a little dog in my five thousand dollar purse.

6). I would not pay five thousand dollars for a purse.

7). I would not go on a commercial for a charity, tell poor people to donate to the charity, and then give the charity one thousand dollars out of my 54 million dollar salary. If you’re going to give a charity money, give them some money, don’t pussyfoot around acting like you’re a big shot. And don’t ask me to pay for you, I have 0$ to my name fool, who do you think you are?

8). I would give to charity though. I love how the Co-founder of Facebook gave twenty four million dollars to this charity called “Give Directly”. They go into third world places like countries in Africa and just give the people the money rather than trying to go through the governments who are corrupt in themselves. It’s done wonders for reducing poverty and child hunger and there hasn’t been a rise in alcohol sales like everyone says there would be. I know the Co-founder dude probably makes billions, but at least he gave them a good chunk of money. That’s how you do charity.

If anything I think fame would make an otherwise extroverted person more inclined to social anxiety. If I was a celebrity I’d probably be curled up in the closet with headphones on my ears ignoring the world. Hell, I do that now so who’s to say having a bunch of money would change it? Mental Health doesn’t care about your bank account, or your net worth, or your race, or your car door umbrella, or your rapping abilities. If I was a celebrity I’d be open about every obsessive thought, every socially anxious nightmare, every episode of depression, every episode of non-depression, every suicide attempt, and every reason for why I wouldn’t change a thing. I’d love every critic chastising my honesty.

Mental Illness is very humbling. It’s a shame more celebrities don’t have it.

Unless you count deluded egos. Then a lot of them have it.