I’m Not the Real Slim Shady, No.

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Once upon a time, in a time long ago
I was a festering pile of cow dung.

It wasn’t that long ago. It feels like it
all happened in other centuries. Eons.

And for the first time in my whole adult life
I’m actually an adult. I’m not a boy

scared of his shadow and Pennywise the Clown.
I’ve done bad things in my past. It’s true. It’s true.

My past is haunted by many skeletons.
My future is uncertain, to me at least.

To others? I’m not so sure. Their agendas
are unknown. They hide in places I can’t see,

living like fleas inside coffee-stained carpets.
It’s like … you can’t see them but you know they’re there?

The irony is? They’re not even your fleas.
You didn’t bring them with you. They were here first.

You move into a cheap, shitty apartment
because you have been a cheap, shitty person.

But let me tell you something. That’s in the past.
The only moment that exists is right now.

People make assumptions all the live long day
as they walk around whistling Led Zeppelin

or The White Stripes, or Jonny Cash. B.B. King.
All those musicians? They’re saying the same thing.

We could be free if we could only let go.
Let go of the tormented minds we harbor

like Paul Walker, James Dean and Sonny Bono.
Learn to live in the moment and you see God.

He or she is standing right next to you, friends.
You’re the one who chooses how this movie ends.

I don’t need or want anything but to write
and play my ridiculous Fender guitar

because folks, as adults in an unfair world
the only way we can play is with ourselves.

“Put down the bottle of Jergens,” Eminem.
“Or Slim Shady will have full control of you.”

And he did. That man’s name is Marshall Mathers.
Slim Shady is a skeleton of his past.

Locked away in the closet with Kim, his mom
and all the millions of Slim Shadies he spawned.

Thing is, most people can’t tell the difference.
They think 8 Mile is just about some rapper

named B’Rabbit. Like Updike said, “Run Rabbit.”
“Run. Dig that hole against the sun.” Black hole sun.

Soundgarden. Chris Cornell. Heavy lies the head.
That’s all I am. A radio antenna

that can dial into odd frequencies like
Jim Caviezel in the movie Frequency.

It ain’t me, babe. It ain’t me you’re looking for.
There’s not a person I want in Ohio,

Florida, Minnesota, Washington, Maine,
Kentucky, Indiana or Illinois.

“I wish they all could be California girls.”
No, no, no. I want a woman. I want Her.

I want something that doesn’t even exist.
So logically speaking, I’ll never have her.

Some say I’m smarter than the average bear.
Some say I’m an untrustworthy piece of shit.

Ok. That’s fine. Few of you know who I am.
To the ones who do: I call you folk my friends.

Now please leave me alone. I have work to do.
My friends and I? We’re trying to run a store.

You know … The American Dream? A small group
of like-minded individuals. A team.

Do you think movies like 50 Shades of Gray
are worth your time? Really? And you get onto

men for looking at pornography? Really?
They’re looking at images. You’re watching the

story and putting yourself in it. Aren’t you?
Stop and think about that for just one minute.

Is that really how you want your life to go?
Or would you rather be happy and have fun?

Two princes kneel before you. That’s what I said.
Chris Barron can sue me if he wants to.

But I’ve got a feeling he’ll retweet this one.
He’s a smart man, that one, and I loved his band.

Even though I didn’t even know his name
‘til he followed me on social media.

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