If I Had (Eminem Fanfic)

Chapter 7- The Way I Am

A/N: Thought this shit was gettin' too self-centered on the OC. So, you get Em in here, in this chapter.

Chapter 7- The Way I Am

I waited for Paul to pick up.

One sheep, two sheep…

He picked up on the third ring, like I expected he would.

“Ayo, Em, what up?” He asked, nonchalantly.

“Well, listen to this. If you ever, ever, ever and fucking ever persuade me into doin’ these interviews again, I’m gon’ fuckin’ tie your balls to a fuckin’ branch and let you hang from a fuckin’ tree and wait till they tear off of your fuckin’ scrotum.” I said, trying not to sound as intense as I felt inside.

He instantly became concerned, “What happen? The interview went wrong?”

I looked up at the white ceiling, turning away from the receptionist who kept eyeing me. Fucktard’s starting to piss me off. “Nothing. Howard pissed me off a bit. And I know you knew I was on ecstasy befo’, but it’s only so much the spell can last. He asked me why I talk and act black.”

Paul sniggered on the other end. “You know Howard, he’s funny…”

“Well, I could do without that ‘funny.’ I know the guy’s funny, and I like him, he’s direct. I laughed my ass off the whole way. But I didn’t fucking ask for this, you know? I didn’t ask to be asked by some faggot why I act like some wigger, you know what I’m sayin’? Like fucking seriously, why the fuck would you ask shit like that? Ain’t they ‘sppose to ask me ‘bout my album or some shit, you know what I’m sayin’? They’re fuckin’ askin’ me why I always talk with a fuckin’ accent, the hood I grew up in… Some bitch ass caller called me a one hit wonder, and I don’t give a fuck about it, fuckin’ faggots don’t belong judgin’ me, you know what I’m sayin’?… Aight, man whatever. That’s it. I know you must be busy, I’ll call you later.” Then I hung up before he could say anything.

I thrust the gazing receptionist the phone and glared flat out at him. He didn’t budge.

“You gotta problem?” I asked him.

“I despise your music.” He remarked. I sighed dramatically, stepping away from the counter. I rubbed my face with both my hands to calm me down; stress was taking its toll on me now. I was in New York, doing shows and interviews and getting stoned in between. I’d just come after doing an interview with Howard Stern and decided to let Paul know I blamed him. The Slim Shady LP had come out earlier this year and was a success. My world was changing. People called me white trash; wanna-be black ass rapper and shit I could care less about. Even at the Aftermath label, they didn’t wanna fuck with me. On the other hand, people kissed my ass.

Stepping up to the counter, I leaned in aggressively, “Oh yeah? You don’t know hip hop, you don’t know shit. So this is my advice to you as an artist. Buy my album, little girl.” I flipped him the bird and walked off across the lobby of the hotel I was staying at.

And I just do not got the patience

To deal with these cocky Caucasians who think

I'm some wigger who just tries to be Black

Cause I talk with an accent, and grab on my balls

So they always keep asking the same fucking questions

I scribbled down the rhymes in my sloppy handwriting on the hotel pad. I was cooling off now; but an annoying edge of agitation lingered in the back of my mind. I wanted to get back to Detroit as soon as possible; I was alone right here. Proof had decided to stay behind in Detroit for some reason I know the fuck not, until later he would get back with me. Back in Detroit, we were going to do shows and concerts together.