The Fame Slut

aaaame3Fame: love from others I’ve never met, and I want it. I don’t know if I’m even loved by the people that know me. Some of them may do.

I’ve lost the plot. Why would I care if a stockbroker living in the Upper West Side knows who I am? Or a frumpy grumpy grandmother with cats who lives in Perth?

I am a misanthrope and I want fame – – – paradox.

I wake up sometimes and hate the world, and I want it to hate me back. Everyone is out for themselves. There’s not much altruism out there.

My grandmother was famous: Marje Proops. She was a problem page columnist, and wrote for the Mirror. If you want to learn more, read about her in my memoir – oops, sorry, not published yet. I’ll sum her up: royalist, socialist, narcissist, cat lover.

Am I jealous of her?

Yes.

What a terrible confession.

Who the fuck is jealous of their dead grandmother?

Are you?

I’m sure others before me have experienced this emotion – pathetic, just ridiculous. I’m going mad. I speak to myself, and I’m envious of my late grandmother.

Please let me know if you’re jealous of your dead grandmother. It doesn’t matter if it’s a mere tinge of envy – I’d love to know about it.

Marje was in Madame Tussauds, and the masses wanted her autograph. She was known. She was admired.

Success is the slut I want to wake up with. But she laughs at me from rooftops and the white glistening sides of mountains. I can’t emancipate myself from this terrible lust. I’m shackled to an absurd phantasmal desire.

It’s sad, because if I could love myself, maybe it would all change.
I don’t exactly hate myself. Masturbatory self-love would be fulfilled if I saw the shiny spine of my memoir in a shop.

Every word consumed would feed my skeletal ego; the starving aching child would be nourished. But it needs constant nutrition. So I’d have to sell a lot of books, which I will, because I need to survive; my life depends on it.

I’m in Café Nero today; it’s a dull anodyne day. I hate weekends. Actually I hate most days, but there are more families around on Saturdays; more beautiful smiling children and young proud fathers.

I’ve reached the terrible realisation that I may never have children, and I’ve always wanted them. I’m going to be 47 in May. Even if I met the perfect woman tomorrow, and a day later we had a kid, I wouldn’t see it grow up.

I haven’t been in love for an age. Because of depression and the odd moment of self-loathing, I don’t chase them anymore. If I see a beautiful woman, I feel like a man of poverty in a jewellers shop. Mind you, I have a lot to offer: total dependency.

I need to go Internet dating. But I’m terrible at it. And I detest it. I’m not very good at it. I can’t stand the rows of hopeful smiling faces.
I need a Miserable Lonely Writer With Anxiety Issues dating site.

I wake in a cold bed next to a cold white pillow.

Where are you?

Are you meeting with friends? Are you reading Tolstoy, or watching Charlton Heston in Benhur? Are you dappled in autumn sunshine, wandering through shady woodland?

Whatever you’re doing, I hope you are happy. I want to meet soon; and hope by then I can love myself a little more, so I can cherish you, and make you feel wanted.

Eight Valentine days have passed since I’ve loved.

8 Comments on The Fame Slut

  1. Jess Alter
    November 26, 2014 at 1:03 AM (4 years ago)

    I’m jealous of my dead great-grandfather, so much that I took his surname for my pen name–my grandmother’s maiden name. He did amazing things, was an amazing man. he even was portrayed in a classic Hollywood film, because he was so well-known once upon a time before I was born.

    I want to be the unknown author who people read and suddenly decide I’m the science fiction writer of the decade.

    As for your personal life, you could live to ninety. Many people expect to see their kids grow up yet die long before it happens. You don’t know how the story ends yet, because you’re still living it, Dan.

    You are important, you are wanted, and you are a gifted storyteller and artist. It’s in your blood, your spirit, your very DNA. You are infused with the muse. But, well, she’s a cruel and heartless and demanding and jealous bitch. She’ll take us for everything and demand more. Yet . . . you can’t help but love her.

    It’s in our nature.

    Reply
    • Dan Proops
      November 26, 2014 at 1:24 PM (4 years ago)

      Thanks a lot for leaving the first comment. It’s hard when you’ve had someone well know in your family. What film was your great grandfather in?

      Reply
      • Jess Alter
        November 28, 2014 at 6:25 PM (4 years ago)

        He wasn’t actually *in* the film. An actor portrayed him because he was a Los Angeles fixture at the time. The film was “Rebel Without a Cause”.

        Reply
  2. Robb
    November 27, 2014 at 5:27 PM (4 years ago)

    Come on Dan, you can do it. I’m rooting for you.

    Reply
  3. Dan Proops
    November 27, 2014 at 6:29 PM (4 years ago)

    Thanks Robb, I haven’t had a root in a while – when we go climbing? Thx for leaving a comment – my SEO has whizzed up!

    Reply
  4. Dan Proops
    May 7, 2016 at 4:35 PM (3 years ago)

    Thanks very much for the comment. And for the compliment also!

    Reply

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