A taste of the white beatle

I measure it as a step into a butterfly filled stomach with anxiousness and anxiety waiting to explode. My mouth waters as great news spreads fast. I take the first step. From the opening encounter the smell of fame is a sand road away, into the deep sea of celebrities. I audition thanks to a close friend of mine. I fail. Then comes along the second step. My hopes are centered towards a sun filled state with “The running man” controlling it. But as my thoughts scramble the spatula flips me over to the other side. Where dreams can evaporate only to condense back into the form of a cloud nine. Where Marilyn Monroe and John F. Kennedy can finally spoon under the remixes of Afrojack at 1 oak in New York City. Only if I can visualize something so cool, I can take narcotics back to its essence and bring the chemicals of which it came from and marinate it with my DNA. I’m just stating the obvious. I want you so bad fame. I want the t-shirt time and all the housewives into the world of Skins’ and HBO specials. I will sacrifice my boardwalk to achieve an empire just to give it up for a golden globe award. You never give me much but I can feel you present. So here I am, once again in front of you my love. The camera. As the copper filled snake oozes under my shirt towards my collar, I check, one, two, one, two, and then I begin. The moment ends with a game of Russian roulette; I survive. Here I go with my third step. Success! I’m a little far from it but the taste numbs my gums. I inhale through one nostril with closed eyes only to open them to a view of camera’s rolling. Fuck! This feeling is so fucking good… I’ll take this over the sun any day. That’s the sacrifices I'd take, which leads me to step four. My head is six feet off the ground and an edge is present at the tip of my sneakers front bumpers. What do I do? It’s simple ladies. When you hunger for a primitive male you get a gentleman, when contemporary throws up like trash you get stuck with a stuffed douche bag. I’m what you call history in the making. Am I clear? To answer your question, what I do is jump. Jump off this cliff that has no relevance to my weight. I’ll take the risk of dying only to rewind my self like a DVR recording. I guess I’m not dead after all. The fifth step is indulging in lunch with Michelle Obama. Unfortunately, that has to wait because I haven’t landed yet.