Asocial Existence | Eminem

13

"He's white, pasty, shouts "fuck you!" at office workers, shows his bum at gigs, raps about raping lesbians and ripping Pamela Lee's tits off: are you offended yet?" Marshall reads the article in the magazine, his face clearly not happy.

It's been months and the world has suddenly blown up since he released 'My Name Is', no shocker it become a national sensation.

"They're never-ending Mall, I swear to fuck!" He groans, looking over all the magazines he brought over after having just got back from LA. We're only here for one day until we leave tomorrow for London cause he's now got a show there.

"A lot of female journalists tryna to corner me saying I'm a misogynist. And I slap them in the fucking face! I'm a misogynist, I slap a bitch on the face!" I read out in from an article of my own, quoting his own words "Yes Marshall, cause you'd actually slap a woman" I laugh dryly.

To be honest, it feels like information has been withheld from me. I know I don't have a right to be upset since I didn't ever ask. However, actually listening to his songs and this shit he says in his interviews, he's a completely different person.

"It's all fake, I don't know why they think I'm being serious when I say this shit" he gets up, pacing around the living room before stopping and letting out a sign.

"Marshall, rappers assaulting women is kind of commonplace. On average a woman is killed in the UK at the hands of a man every three days. One in four women has experienced sexual harassment or assault of some kind. Marshall, I'm sorry but given what you say, they're thinking semi-realistically" I ramble, making him roll his eyes at me.

I know he's under a lot of stress but given that, I don't think I'm a person he should be around. I call it like it is, and I don't think he wants that at this moment. He's obviously irritated and I can't be the one to relax him.

"Yeah, throw some statistics at me, that'll help" he grunts before sitting back down.

"Marshall, I don't get it. I thought this is what you wanted. Didn't you want to be hated to a degree? Well, people can't just hate you without reason. They're going to call out what you say that makes you dislikable. I know you aren't really like this, but they don't, that isn't their fault. A lot of people love you, that's one thing that worked out right?" I don't see why he's so upset over something he wanted or claimed to.

"Yeah Mallory, but it's one thing to have people hate you and feel like you can justify not caring about it. I don't know, I feel like it's getting to me more than I want it to..." he mumbles.

I go over to the kitchen and grab the kettle that's finished boiling, pouring the water into my cup of tea. Maybe some Earl Grey will help me try to understand whatever the fuck is going on in this man's life now.

"So what you're saying is you claim you don't give a fuck about anything but you do... kinda?" I reiterate.

"I mean, yeah I care about things! I care about my daughter, I care about my friends, I care about you! Other than that everything else can go to hell. But... people saying all this shit about my work and not trying to put any form of nuance into it is just pissing me off."

"Of course Marshall but that's how art works. It's subjective, it flows into whatever form someone wants to perceive it as. When my sculpture is somewhere where people can see it, though the meaning is about how women's bodies are kept as spectacles, or canvases for whatever men deem attractive, someone may think it's about sexual insecurity or whatever they feel for themselves. Sure your reactions are pretty negative, but then there are ones where people are so impressed and shocked by your work in such good ways. It happens, that's how this all works. Art is meant to comfort the disturbed and disturb the comforted" I try to tell him, hoping my seemingly intelligent reasoning will spur him into a change of logic.