Hello. My name is Steven, but some of you may know me better by my hip-hop persona $teven. I’m here like the rest of you because of my addiction. I’m addicted to my haters. I love them so much.
When I first started my rap career, everything was going great. I was selling out shows, I signed a contract with a record label, and I had a decent sized posse. I got a little bit of flack from critics here and there, but I ignored them like I had done my whole life. There was no need to stoop to their level. I was doing just fine making music without any negative influence.
One day a producer talked me into meeting one of them. I tried saying no, but he convinced me that saying hi to one disbeliever couldn’t hurt. It felt like a bad idea, and a gateway towards more cynical fans. Despite all the warnings, I shook his hand. I listened to his skepticism. I gave an ear to his complaints. I smoked a small bag of meth he gave me. The meth was actually pretty good.
I slowly started to spiral out of control. More people started listening to my music. Many of them were haters. I should have questioned their opinions and stood up for myself. Instead I embraced them. I couldn’t help myself. I love my haters. I care about all of them endlessly and I’ve kissed each of them on the forehead at least a few times.
The descending quality of my music was a direct result of their antagonism. Nobody realized this. NOBODY. My producers thought that I had writer’s block, but I wasn’t having any problems making music. Let’s recount the tracks on my sophomore album:
- Ugh I really need to do some laundry.
- Yeah I like yogurt, so what.
- Do you want your receipt in the bag?
- I am a grasshopper (not literally lol…it’s just a metaphor)
- …I was sitting there
- Guess how many people I’ve had sex with (two)
- There’s a tag on your shirt btw
- Call me “Mr. Take-a-walk-just-to-get-some-fresh-air”
- I have a blind date tonight, so I’m kind of nervous haha.
- …I was sitting there (reprise)
Yeah. Not my best work. But perhaps my best worst work. The quality of the album was intentional. I did it on purpose. I did it to feed my haters & rapidly increasing dependency to them. Their hatred was like oxygen to me. I breathed it into my lungs. Like oxygen.
I went on tour and people still didn’t realize what I was doing. My crew thought my sub-par performances were because of stage fright. Well, they kind of were. I did have stage fright, but I had full control over it. My shaking hands, stammering voice, and puke-breaks while my hype-man covered for me were all voluntary. The lyrics to “… there’s a tag on your shirt btw” were intentionally forgotten. The encore where I just forgot to come back out all together was a complete hoax. I was actually backstage eating hummus & Stacey’s pita chips (the naked type, duh). I rehearsed all of this to sabotage the show and gain more haters. Boy did it work.
Die-hard fans began to turn on me and proclaim themselves haters. Casual fans began to betray me and unlike my Facebook page. Pre-existing haters continued to write mean tweets about me and didn’t really change their behavior at all. Everyone was falling into my trap.
My manager eventually caught on to what I was doing. Disappointed, he sent me to rehab program where I was taught how to gradually ease off of my haters and wash all of their 1-Star-iTunes-Ratings out of my system. This was tough. My music had hit rock bottom, so haters were accumulating at an alarming rate. I had to relearn everything. Mainly, I couldn’t figure out anything to rhyme with “money”.
With a lot of hard work, I learned how to love myself again. With even more hard work I learned that “bunny rabbit” rhymes with money. Kind of. That brings me to today. I still have scars from my haters (blog posts are like impossible to remove from the internet) but I am sober. I haven’t asked one of my haters on a date in 3 weeks. Thank you. Wait why isn’t anyone-
This is for alcoholics? My bad.