We live in the dirty, digital age of Celebrity wannabe where everyone, including me, overshares everything.
At the gym today, I was listening to Ryan Seacrest who is literally…EVERY PLACE… EVERYWHERE in our psyche, and exhausting our subconscious. He was talking about how North West loves to play with makeup, and watch makeup tutorials on YouTube. A tutorial on YouTube? the kid is four. I get her weird reality is a gazillion dollar bubble of nonreality, but shouldn’t she be outside getting dirty, playing with dolls, swimming, skipping, running, scraping her knees or something? You know, doing kid stuff that has nothing to do with technology?
As someone who lived half her life as an object playing dress up because she was lucky to be born tall and photogenic, always trying to be someone else’s vision. That’s cool; that was the job. Morphing into characters that had absolutely nothing to do with me. Sure at eighteen, and even thirty it was a goddamn luxury to be financially free, and traveling the globe on a whim.
I understood early the infamous world of modeling had a shelf life, and sure enough, I was retired, phased out, kicked to the curb. I was “too fat (at size 6), too old, too overexposed”…blah, blah, blah. Hell yes, there were nasty, mean ass comments from super unhappy people projecting their jealousy, negativity, the desire to be famous.
I should’ve carried around a sage stick.
Guess what, fame kills. It kills creativity, anonymity, empathy, normalcy, and simplicity. The desire to be seen literally buries the soul underneath layers and layers and layers of cemented ego.
Sometimes I’ll post modeling pictures out of curiosity, to see how many ‘likes’ they’ll get. And you know what, they’re always the highest liked posts. Sad that my face dictates how you see me when the words I write from the soul are more authentic, raw and naked than any physical body.
It’s important to look and feel nice; I get it. I can assure you the designer duds, bullshitters who hover, fancy house and fame will not fulfill you.
Before you pick up your phone, look in the mirror. That barebones happy and sometimes sad, overtired face will never lie. That is your true identity.
Fame is a fancy new millennium four-letter word that spells ‘fuck,’ I’m watching you. Two decades later after the modeling, cameras, and lights have dimmed, I am only now beginning to unpeel the layers, and learning to like myself.
‘I think everybody should get rich and famous and do everything they ever dreamed of so they can see that it’s not the answer.’ – Jim Carrey