Dear Eminem,

 

I’m not the sort of person who writes to celebrities. I haven’t cared about famous people since I was in sixth grade, when my bedroom walls were plastered with New Kids on the Block posters and the thought of Luke Perry gave me palpitations. But even back then, when I could sing “Hangin’ Tough” in its entirety, I never bothered with letters. I knew well enough that celebrities were busy people. So busy they had to hire a staff to complete their menial chores, including opening and answering their mail. This probably won’t even cross your desk—it’ll be intercepted by some slack-jawed fan club employee who spends his days sifting through heaps of your mail. He probably peels the envelopes off the enormous stack one-by-one, slicing into them with a sharp-edged letter opener. Maybe he’ll let his glazed eyes roll across a page or two, guffaw loudly to himself about the pathetic lives of your correspondents, then pass the crinkled sheets of loose leaf paper off to some other bored underling who’ll push a button to print out a form letter:

 

Dear Fan, I’m sorry I’m not able to answer you personally, but I really appreciate you taking the time to send me a note. Please keep buying my music so I can keep amassing obscene amounts of money, and consider blowing more of your disposable income on a membership in my special Slim Shady Society. You’re not a Number One Fan unless you join. Please send payment by check or money order.

 

So why have I had this sudden change of heart?

 

Sitting here with my journal and my trusty Bic pen, I’m asking myself the same question. For some reason you’ve been on my mind. More accurately, in it. Running back and forth in the space between my ears, hopping up and down, rapping, and stirring up quite a bit of dust and confusion. I need to know why you're in there, and what I can do to get you out.

 

It's not that I hate your music. As a matter of fact, I think its catchy hooks and hypnotic beats deserve a world of praise. But I can't say the same for your disturbing, rage-fueled lyrics. They leave me cowering in the corner, elbows blocking my ears to muffle the sound.

 

Don't you get it bitch, no one can hear you?

Now shut the fuck up and get what's comin’ to you

 

Fuck this bitch right here on the spot bare

Til she passes out and she forgot how she got there

 

You faggots keep egging me on

Til I have you at knifepoint, then you beg me to stop?

 

I maintain this pose for as long as I can, only to be disarmed by your sing-song delivery of milder choruses.

 

I’m Slim Shady, Yes I’m the Real Shady

All you other Slim Shadys are just imitatin’

 

The next thing I know, I'm sitting up, ears exposed, totally surrendering to the power of your voice. It lifts me off the floor and seizes control of my brain, forcing me to mouth the lyrics right along with you.

 

So the FCC won’t let me be

Or let me be me so let me see

They try to shut me down on MTV

But it feels so empty without me

 

I guess I should be honest. I really don't mind giving in to you all that much. At least, not until my conscience calls me out. It berates me for not having more sophisticated taste, for turning a blind eye to hate speech, for supporting misogyny.

 

Caught red-handed, I have no excuses. So I hang my head, embarrassed and confused by my desire to both purge and consume you.

 

How can I call myself a feminist while enjoying your music? How can I ball my fists against the death penalty when I rock out to the thumping bass of “Kill You”? How can I champion gay rights if I’m giggling as you bash the sexuality of Insane Clown Posse?

 

You go against everything I stand for, and yet I still can’t help but support your work. The other day I found myself lined up in aisle two at my local Best Buy, clutching your greatest hits album, excited because it was on sale and included a limited edition DVD.

 

And now you’ve been popping up in my dreams. In a reoccurring scene, I find myself standing in a circle of people, watching you approach, although none of us know it’s you. Your platinum blond hair is tucked under an uncombed mullet wig. You’re walking hunched and wobbly up to each person in the circle—feebly pushing a pair of taped black glasses up the bridge of your nose as you offer them a CD with some sloppy cover art. One-by-one they grab the discs you dish out, flinging them to the ground, crunching the cases under their heels. But you continue to make your way around the circle, dishing out more CDs, cheeks reddening and shoulders lowering as more people contribute to the plastic cacophony.

 

Then you get to me. I accept your offering and don’t laugh like everyone else, even though I have no idea who you are. I pat your arm, thank you for giving me some free music, and pop open the case to inspect the crookedly typed liner notes. You appreciate this acceptance, and when I look up you catch my eye with a wink and nod.

 

By now everyone is laughing and spitting on you, so you creep slowly towards the center of the circle. You stand upright, tear the wig off your head, and at the top of your lungs start shouting:

 

And I am whatever you say I am

If I wasn’t, then why would I say I am

In the paper, the news every day I am

Radio won’t even play my jam

 

A huge microphone appears in your left hand, and all of a sudden the crowd is behind you and they’re laughing and clapping like they knew they were being played all along. You smile, and your blue eyes meet mine again, and unlike the regular me I smile back and don’t break eye contact until you finish the tune. But then your smile coils into a deadly sneer; you turn away from me and face your crowd of well-wishers: “Y’all didn’t give a fuck who I was when you didn’t know me. So alla y’all can go fuck yourselves right now. Except you.”

 

You point the bulb of your microphone at me, directly at the center of my chest, and I bite the inside of my cheek as you leap to my side and hurl your arm around my shoulder. “C’mon. It’s just me and you now.” The circle parts, and you lead me toward the open door of a limo. As I lean into the blackness, I know that you like me. This makes me happy, because I know that the sweet smile you give me is nothing like the lusty-eyed leer you reserve for the silicone-enhanced, gold-digging groupies you normally cavort with. We drive away, and as the headlights disappear around a corner, I sit straight up in my bed with a silly grin squiggled across my lips.

 

Why is this happening? Why are you so persistently invading both my subconscious and waking minds? Why do I find you and your music so irresistible? I need to know if this is a healthy obsession or if I’m going crazy. And I need to know if I appreciate your writing because of its raw, uncensored honesty or if I’m really just as angry and intolerant as the persona you project. I know you say people need to get a sense of humor when they listen to your songs, and maybe that’s what I’ve done. But what if I haven’t? What if I’m a mean, intolerant hypocrite—and didn’t realize it until you broke open my soul and let my true self spill out?

 

These are questions that worry me, Em, otherwise I wouldn’t be writing.

 

So if you’re some pimply-faced lackey about to crumple up these pages, please consider passing them along to Marshall Mathers instead. Or if you can’t do that, at least pretend to be him, and write “Dear Jenny” on your form letter before ignoring everything I’ve said and giving me the Slim Shady Society sales pitch.

 

Thanks,

 

Jenny

 

Jenny Seay is a life-long Chicagoan known for dabbling in writing of all sorts. Her work has appeared in TimeOut Chicago, Venus Zine, Punk Planet, and Hair Trigger 27, among others. When she's not plunking away at her first novel, she enjoys sharing her opinions on geek culture as co-host of the podcast, Earth-2.net: The Show.