Your new found sense of fame has filled my mouth with acrid bile.

It is the best fallacy since 1980′s high school films.  You would eat your own face if the paparazzi captured it on film, lest the fact that no one henceforth would ever recognize you.  But that one nanosecond of fame would propel you into an orgasmic wonderland.  You have sprinted desperately to the lights of the camera in the futile attempt at recognition.  This so called fame which will place its warm arms around you but which cannot be captured.  As people inflate this nothingness around you, an unbelievable yet totally real vacuousness creeps in.  It emerges as you flock to the lights.  There is nothing there, lest you really exist.  What do you base this fame on?  An email account?  A binary code sent into the inter web?  Pixels in a camera?  It is the root canal in your impending reality check  based solely on a an inverse proportion of insipidness.

What is my response, you query?  I sentence you to the cement shoes of solitude.  Where no one fawns over your Tumblr account or radical new sleeveless shirt.  I saddle you to solitude.  Think solely upon the impact you create on this world and how insignificant it really is.  Spend some alone time with the one person you can’t accept – yourself.  The mirror of self examination is not cracked, it is reflecting a flawed image.  When this reality sinks its teeth into your  jugular vein, I will smile into the darkness.  You float to the lights of the cameras as I burrow into the darkness of the city.  As you glide red carpets, I trudge through sewers….licking the the curb of reality and tasting the stench of humanity.  Something your ‘people’ protect you from.  My nails are black from clawing into the background of existence….I crave to be the mire and muck  you turn your nose up to.  After all, it is where you came from.  The Street.  One true place in the middle of chaotic screams for acceptance.  The pavement churns through my veins reminding me of a reality the champagne in your glass tries to erase.

Fame has made you a shadow.  Fame has made you a sham.  I exist in the reality of sewers and gutters.  This will serve me more than the fairytale others have swaddled you in.  Step back a minute from your self-indulgent fame whoring and lick the sidewalk.  It is the taste of dreams passing through the gristmill of reality.

You are a the worst of all – a fame whore.  I am your opposite – a reality whore.  Drink me in while I punch through your facade of happiness and reveal to you what creativity tastes like.  It is the elixir of individuality you gambled and lost to attain a moment of nothingness.