“If I can't be beautiful, I want to be invisible.”
Sounds Like
lipstick being applied, liposuction, mirrors breaking, JonBenét Ramsey laughing, botox injections, Louis Vuitton shopping sprees, Scott Peterson fake crying & the noise it makes when a mascara brush is being stabbed in your face
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Dear Diary, I'm just living life:
Hi, my name's Jeffree Star and one time God told me it was unhealthy to be so popular, that's probably why I'm sick all the time. Go and buy some sunglasses because the future is bright pink, bitch.
[sorry if we can't all be unoriginal] but I have a mold to break.
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I’m a billboard, advertising your aging confidence, self-destruction and sagging self-esteem.
The appearance of my own body is cut and dissected every time I breathe. My horror of beauty is not when I’m laying naked on the bathroom floor, but when I’m staring at myself, wondering what’s underneath the painted-on feelings and made-up eyes. I’m not a fucking beauty queen. When I walk into the bathroom, I’m not getting pretty.. I’m destroying myself. Repairing myself from the damage I’ve done. Whether YOU like it or NOT. The ceiling of fear crashes down on me when I pick up the latest fashion magazine and find that no one else looks like me. But what is ME? Where has the word "real" gone to? Maybe reality is blonde hair, plastic body parts, tan skin and porcelain teeth? I think it’s sweaty skin, smeared lipstick and a big mouth, being afraid of nothing and truly LOVING yourself without BEING someone else. The vanity sanctuary will keep me safe and you can try to break me down but you’re only hurting yourself, just like you’re supposed to be doing.
I’ll be dying in my makeup and you’ll be dying without it. Did you have a point? Because somewhere in your own special ugliness you lost meaning and I forgot what you said. So center the text and write some more, it’s all mine..and its all needneedneed. Memememememe.
You’re famous last words were forgotten because no one was listening.
Quite time now, surgery isn’t an option.
They said I'd never be anything but who has the world watching them? Who has such amazing and dedicated fans? People need to hate me because they hate themselves. They want to believe the rumors about me because they don't have their own rumors. I'm here to stay, with my diamond rims and pink lipstick, so get used to it and worry about yourself before you try and be negative towards me.
I'm a getaway car for real feelings. I'm your Miss Methamphetamine, the truth shoved up your nose. Smile, with your gasoline teeth and forced empathy. Let me be the one thing that makes your heart break because you can't help it. You need someone like me to make you feel wrong.
The celebrity of our favorite C*U*N*T* and consummate fame sucking whore continues to take the world one lipstick & one dick at a time, leaving monsterous trails of smeared mascara and broken mirrors everywhere.... last year: posing for magazines, appearing on TV shows and being heard over 20 MILLION times on myspace, turning down offers that most bands would die for [because it wasn't right, selling out isn't an option] and playing to audiences of ten thousand plus, selling out tours and being the QUEEN BITCH.. what began as an exercise in self delusion fulfilled itself in the biggest self made personality the world has ever seen, ladies and geltlemen, greater than life itself, bigger than a house and able to jump teams of single men in leaps and bounds, the cunt and queen of the internet, THIS is MISS JEFFREE STAR!
Half super bitch and half mega cunt. He is a self admitted boyfriend thief and makeup addict, he is a photo junkie and designer clothes slut, he is brazenly sexual and openly subversive; he has become a role model for the new post 911 America.The world feels like a funeral and Jstar is the high heeled embalmer, filling the world with reality and plastic mixed with disaster. Haters beware, there's more to Jeffree Star than makeup and well coiffed hair, more than the space age Teflon personality from which he deflects bullets and bombs faster than super heroes in the movies.
Easily one of MySpace's most identifiable names, Jeffree Star, 21, carries the torch as a self made celebrity. Some celebrities are manufactured by the system. Others beat the system and manufacture themselves. To the casual culture vulture peeking in on Jeffree’s MySpace page, the hundreds of thousands of “friends” may look like magic, but the reality behind this sleight of hand is sheer marketing genius and countless hours of hard work.
A case in point of the tenet that sometimes in life we do get to choose our own labels, this self-proclaimed “Head of the Makeup Mafia” and “Queen Bitch Supreme Among Internet Royalty” is a bundle of cyanidelaced contradictions that comprise the vicious, pink persona of an individual who’s a pioneer in the true sense of the word. Star shed his birth name and backstory like some played-out trend, creating a new sense of personal history through pronouncements such as “I’m not a man; I’m not a woman; I’m a mannequin”—playing with notions of gender, sexual identity, and the loss/transmogrification/“gain” of the human condition in the process.
“Not everyone’s going to get me,” sighs Star. “But that’s the point. I’m not the first person to be ahead of my time—but I don’t have time for the retirement center to catch up. They can pop Geritol and recycle the tried-and-tired; it’s more important for me to continue to evolve and expand.”
As record producers and media execs scratch their heads in predictable middle-aged, middle-American, fearbased fashion, the countless hordes of teenagers jumping aboard the Jeffree Star bandwagon don’t exactly count for nothing. Be they sweaty-palmed fans or homophobic foes, their machete-sharp gaze and relentless attention confirm the same basic fact: love him or loathe him, at the end of the day this star is rising.
My plastic surgery face is just another reminder of what I'm walking away from.
My music is just another reminder to shut the fuck up and take your clothes off.
My life is just another reminder that I'm the reason teenage girls shove their fingers down their throats and little boys question their sexuality.
Because unlike every other bitch on this myspace.com hype, I prefer being under the floor with the worms while you all crash around in the ten inch stilletos you don't need, tripping all over one another's bullshit that drags as far behind you as your fake faces. I like being solitary and refined. I like people passing over me when my face isn't on. Unlike all the angstmonger kiddie-hoppers on myspace, I mean it when I say I COULD CARE LESS and that I am ONLY HERE TO SCREAM MY OPINIONS and I could really GIVE A SHIT LESS IF IT MATTERS TO YOU.
THEY care because they need the hits, the friends, the name that rides currents. They need to be part of the radiowaves that bring anyone else to attention. They need people to turn their heads when they say the same thing everyone else does in the same voice with the same face and in the same $60 pants that were worn in by the same asian kids getting paid the same bum change in the same factory living the same miserable fucking life.
You didn't buy those clothes at a fucking thrift shop. Your idea of vintage is a boy scout shirt complete with badges you never earned nor even understand the symbols of on fucking sale for $99.50, cause the halfbuck is so much less when you don't care where your mommy and daddy's credit card is used. Parading in Prada when you're so fucking punk and XXXtothefuckingCORE that you'll damn the system and bitch when your sister's pants rip at the seam because YOUR ASS DOES NOT FIT, UGLYSCENEBOY.
I know you all want me to stand around and look pretty, but I'm actually a real person. Barely.
no.
[I don't expect you to understand a word or see me as anything typical.]
no.
[I'm not naive enough to think the words "fag" or "attention whore" are below your state of mind for me.]
no.
I don't expect you to leave me the fuck alone, to erase the word enigma from your minds and thinks me unimportant. I can hope, but we all hope for silly things, don't we?
Yes, cameras are always flashing while I'm hidden under black tinted windows silently smiling with perfect pink lipstick. My diamond fingernails sparkle like a Mike Jones/Paul Wall grill and you'll have to wear sunglasses if you wanna come near this princess of fame.
I'm an icon to the teenage underground world. Even JonBenet Ramsey wanted to be me. My sparkling razor sharp tiaras that Miss America style-jacked from me. You'll soon see me inside every magazine, 6 page layouts of me pretending like I have real feelings. My eyes are hidden from the sun beneath huge fake eyelashes and my wrist says "fake" and "vanity" obviously contradicting everything I've already said ??andthenandthenandthen? For an instant, everything feels so important.. almost real.
Everything is monotone like my dead fucking eyes and I'll say "I'm the only Miss America. I'm what your mother was supposed to be. I'm perfect."
"I want out of the labels. I don't want my whole life crammed into a single word. A story. I want to find something else, unknowable, some place to be that's not on the map. A real adventure. A sphinx. A mystery. A blank. Unknown. Undefined.
"The only way to find true happiness is to risk being completely cut open.
Sure, everybody wants to play God, but for me it's a full-time job.
What you don't understand, you can make mean anything."
JEFFREE STAR (on WARPED TOUR!)'s Friend Space (Top 8)
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