Fan

            The essence of being a fan eludes me. Why anyone would want to even admit to being a fan baffles me. Why does anyone, anywhere, ever deserve lusty, t-shirt tearing hysteria. Who are these proudly professing "fans" that wait patiently for autographs, pictures, a stray hair even, from their stars? Who experiences life fulfillment upon shaking hands with a celebrity? What kind of delusional state of low self-esteem do you exist in?.
             Even, the quiet fan, the conversational admirer, is an enigma to me. Owning multiple copies of anything by one person seems like a waste. Who needs all the versions available "uncut," "live," "abridged," the "best of's," "highlight films," "documentaries," and the absurdly popular "Diaries of?" Being able to regurgitate facts from your collection of paraphernalia hardly qualifies as a conversation skill. .
             As a participant in every day life and an occasional watcher of VH1, the flaws of humanity seem glaringly obvious to me. Our lying, cheating, addictive, vindictive human nature is nothing to brag about. Sure, the occasional creative soul can produce some great music, eloquent writing, or profound thought. I can appreciate, admire even, that song/book/philosophy. But transferring my admiration for a moving melody/paragraph/theory to the soiled ego that created it is foolhardy and illogical. .
             I don't want your sweaty clothes, broken guitar, dried up pen, or old house. I don't need to see where you were born, had your diaper changed, and suffered a bad case of shingles. You can keep your advice on how to organize my medicine cabinet feng sui style, uniquely accessorize my spring wardrobe according to your newest purchase, and achieve personal happiness based on tips you received in rehab. .
             I am not a fan. .