I started being hounded by the paparazzi as a preteen. 

 

"What is your new film about?"  "When is your wedding?"  "What do you think of the Iran hostage crisis?"

 

People wanted my opinions.  They wanted my autograph.  They wanted my photo to be taken with them.

 

They were there when no friends were.  They were there when I barricaded my bedroom door so my mentally ill sister couldn't come in and hurt me.  They were there to adore me when my mother wouldn't defend me, when she would hide in her bedroom with her dinner and television night after night. 

 

When my sister would unscrew the knob on the bathroom door, let herself in and laugh at my nakedness in the tub, the press congratulated me on my new album.  I talked to them extensively about my European tour, my duet with Robert Plant, and my trend-setting hairstyle.

 

They have been there when I've died, rehashing the many beautiful comments that were made by other celebrities.  They wrote of the songs that were written in memorium.

 

They've grilled me on my medical disorders, making it okay for the average american to have something like IBS or major depression.  Whenever they've asked about my parents, I've been coy with my response.  I hint to them that there are things i'd like to forget, while refusing to dish out dirt because it isn't right to do so.

 

They've been with me for 30 years now.  They leave me alone when I must go to bed, or when I'm using the bathroom, but soon catch up with me to bask in my glow.  (their words, not mine)

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