Saturday, March 7, 2009

"Hi, My Name is Crystal, and I Am Not a Groupie..."

Maybe someone could explain this shit to me, because apparently, I'm just not getting it. There is no reason to be a groupie over anyone except Jesus Christ himself. Quite frankly, any monkey with a finger and a screech can sing into an autotuner, but not everyone can walk on water or feed five thousand with five loaves of bread. Yet, I digress. First of all: groupie-(n) an ardent fan of a celebrity or of a particular activity, as per Although this is it in a nutshell, I feel they should amend this definition. Many groupies, of the rap persuasion in particular, will do ANYTHING to grasp even a minuscule piece of this "artist's" attention. Please. I am not personally prepared to remove my underwear that probably cost more than dinner and throw them on a stage to be swept up with confetti, gum, and whatever trash may be up there. Neither am I prepared to air out my dirty laundry in a tell-all confession that may be a New York Times Bestseller but irreversibly brutalizes my reputation and my psyche.

I recently met a guy, who claimed to be a big-time producer for Slip-N-Slide (whether he was or not, I don't know. Don't really care). He was feeding me hella crap about all the cars and houses and shit he had. The thing was, he was used to women falling all over him and being guessed it. Groupies. Me? Not even, bruh! I don't know why I was not born with this seemingly innate female characteristic, but then again I don't ask why I wasn't born with 12 fingers either. And sidebar: this guy was not the cutest either. It was one of those rags-to-riches stories where the kid who was teased in high school gets a little money and self-confidence, swag if you will, and proceeds immediately to the nearest cool kids' table. Spare me, guy. Looks like if you take away the clothes, the diamonds and the cash-induced swag, I'll take the monkey with the autotuner.

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