There is a certain gratification that comes with the realization that the world will NOT, in fact, go to blazes just because you are not a part of it, and that those who choose to believe so do that of their own will. There is no reason why this should be a cause of distress, because it implies that they hold you in higher esteem than you are aware you may be worth.
Life is made entirely of choices. One can choose to do everything but that can’t possibly mean one can do everything they wished. From there, we reach the second degree of choice, which is of you choosing either to stick to your choice or to change your mind. If they don’t like it, they probably belong in “Blazes.”
And even after all that, you realize the day was still too long, and for the amount of work you’ve done, nothing has been achieved, which really doesn’t help when every possible assignment is due in the course of the same week. This is a call for you to put the world on pause as you play High School Musical’s “Scream,” when, against orders, you unintentionally lost your voice from praising God.
Will.i.am is a musician. Have we got that? Good. I did not say he was a singer. I said musician. He’s a performing artist. Got that too? Great.
For the last time, allow me to say it: will.i.am makes music.
It simply cannot be right to call will.i.am useless because he uses auto tune. Did he say he was singing R’n’B? No. He’s rapping and singing but he is not a singer. Yet this is how he makes his music.
I love will.i.am’s music because:
a) His songs are nice to dance to.
b) His lyrics are hilarious.
c) It’s refreshing to listen to auto tuned music when someone is DOING IT RIGHT.
Seriously. Very few people I know can use auto tune as well as he does. As for this one, it’s not a case of having vocal talent or not; his auto tune is required for his kind if music, which, I admit, might suck without it. But isn’t that the whole point? How can you say he has no talent just because his method of music-making is more obviously technological than others?
Let me illustrate the argument against will.i.am for you clearly.
If you smudge your pencil when you draw, you have no talent because you can’t create real value on your own.
If you use GarageBand, you have no talent because you are not playing an actual instrument.
If you buy a shirt, you have no talent because you can’t sew one of your own.
If you sing a cover of somebody’s song (even in your shower), you have no talent, because you haven’t come up with lyrics of your own.
If you type a document and email it, you are incompetent because you haven’t written an actual letter with ink and managed to send it to the post office. Clearly, you don’t even know how to spell—probably relied on autocorrect, that’s why.
If you use a calculator to do trigonometry, you are stupid because you don’t have the exact value for the sine of every angle between 0 and 360 degrees in your head.
Need I go on?
Maybe people are hating because he doesn’t feel the need to swear every two seconds the way some typical hip-hoppers do. Or they are hating because he doesn’t have music videos featuring shameless half-naked girls grinding up on him all through it (*cough* Robin Thicke *cough*). Or maybe because his lyrics can be silly for the sake of it—people these days seem to prefer blasphemy, vulgarity and crudeness.
Nevertheless, I like will.i.am’s music and may I just say my current favourite non-Christian Contemporary album is #willpower. (It even has a hash tag!!!)
Anyway. Whatever. To each his own and all that.
By the way, your hair cannot get awesome pass will’s.
There is one celebrity that has featured prominently in my mind of late. For some strange reason I feel she is personally significant to me in a way no other celebrity is. She is the reason for this flood of writing I wasted an entire prep doing. Today, I decided to transfer it here. It’s called A Letter to You.
A LETTER TO YOU
Ever since I was old enough to talk, I wanted to be with you. It was my burning desire—my life’s only goal. I was a heart full of innocence and all I wanted was your approval. So I fought for it.
I fought for us to be together. Those who thought I’d be no good—those who ridiculed me—I wanted to show them. But even those intentions were negligible compared to the completely pure wish just to get CLOSE to you. My parents? I turned them around. Who were they to stand in the way of what I wanted? I wanted you!
I tried to have you. I got close. But you told me I was too young. I cried, but I got over it. Maybe you’d wait till I grew up a little. Maybe you’d want me next year.
By the next year, the desire hadn’t left, I wanted you badly. I wanted you more than ever. So I tried to have you to myself. I tried again.
Success! Finally! Both of us could be together! Forever… I cried again, but this time, they were joyful tears.
I knew you’d be good to me. After all, I was still so young. Easily influenced. Easily corrupted. But I trusted you. I gave you my heart.
My darling, you watched me grow up. Your eyes were on me every step of the way. Never letting me make a single move without your knowledge ten seconds later. Details of my whereabouts and activities flowed through every part of you like a network of nerves.
Surely, your surveillance would do me no harm? You were only trying to make sure I was on the right path, no? I believed that. I wanted to.
But then…the lies started spreading. Scandalous untruths. I straightened them out, of course, but I was hurt. Nevertheless, I decided to forgive you. They were mere mistakes. I mean, you misunderstood the truth and misinterpreted my actions. I thought…I thought I understood.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t stop myself from wondering: was I in love, or was I in prison?
Although the question was left unanswered, over time, it began to feel more like the latter. I felt trapped. Because my dream had come true? Because I’d finally gained your recognition and now you couldn’t take your eyes off me? I was afraid— no, terrified, that ONE false move would tear me away from you, and make me black in your eyes forever.
All of a sudden, I realized something unfathomable: I had become your idol. You, who were once my only dream, now worshipped me like a goddess. It was insane, yet amazing. It was at this moment that I thought…I’d experiment.
Since we became acquainted, you’d always known two sides if me. Well, maybe, I thought, you wouldn’t mind seeing a third. Maybe this one would be real.
“The other side
The other side
I want you to see
The other side
The other side
The other side of me…”
The minute I tried to reveal my own identity, you cried out, “NO!” I wasn’t allowed to do this. Nor that. I must, at all costs, remain the same: the person with the sweet voice and angelic smile that you knew.
Then it hit me with the force of a grand piano straight from the 18th century: you didn’t freaking KNOW me! The thing is, you were staunchly refusing to let go of that girl, the one I realized wasn’t me. It was the girl you’d moulded for your own purposes, you selfish, manipulative, incubus. I was your prisoner, your little puppet. One wrong move, and you pulled the strings back into place.
I wouldn’t tolerate that. No. Never. In your dreams. I get what I want. How dare you try to domesticate me! Turn me into a Barbie-esque blonde star that never grows up. That’s not me! I’m brunette, for goodness’ sake.
Your own desire to approve of me got in the way of your reason. The pressure you exerted on me weighed me down like millions of gallons of water above my head while I was 40 feet deep. Dear God.
“Stop trying to live my life for me
I need to breathe
I’m not your robot.
Stop telling me I’m part of this big machine.
I’m breaking free.
Can’t you see?
I can live
I can breathe
Without somebody else operating me.
You gave me eyes and now I see
I’m not your robot;
I’m just me.”
Instructions, commands, criticisms. Everywhere I went. I was right. You WERE trying to domesticate me. It’s like you intentionally refused to realize that I needed to change, to grow, and to become something new. I felt I’d give you a warning as to how far you were pushing me: I CAN’T BE TAMED!
“I wanna fly
I wanna drive
I wanna go
I wanna be a part of something I don’t know
And if you try to hold me back I might explode.
Baby, by now you should know:
I can’t be tamed!”
To be perfectly honest, I thought it’d be enough. So I thought I’d give you one last chance. But you didn’t listen to me. All I got for my desperate efforts to break free of your shackles and absurdly round Mickey Mouse ears was slander.
Then I knew you had never loved me. You turned your back on me like I was the devil. As if I was the one who had betrayed YOU. Bullcrap.
Still, still, still, you tried to hold me back. I warned you: I exploded.
Really? Oh fine.
You wanted a blonde Barbie doll? As you wish. I dyed my hair blonde.
As for you, you seemed to have forgotten a few crucial points about Barbie dolls.
For one thing, there was always that rogue child who liked to experiment with scissors and the dolls hair…at the same time.
For another, haven’t you ever noticed that a Barbie doll’s clothes are some if the hardest things to keep track of? They do have a knack for getting mysteriously missing.
And that’s the essence of it: getting naked and having terrible hair. But I bet you didn’t know about the twerking. The Barbie dolls do that in secret. 😉
Here I stand in front of you, my love, dear world, on the very stage you invited me to perform on, in my mo’fu’n underwear, with my ass up against Thicke’s dick. Eff his wife. And eff everyone else too. See, now I just CAN’T STOP.
Congratulations. You broke me. I am now a product of your process. I went there. They all go there eventually.
So congratulate me, your princess, your perfect Barbie doll. And I hope you go to hell. I’ll be runnin’ that joint soon. See you there. 😉