I’m bossy today but maybe sassy tomorrow.
I’m polite but I have a potty mouth.
I switch between American and British accents given whom I’m speaking to.
I carry a slight Beijinger (aka. New Yawker) accent that it’s hard for people to believe that I’m actually Shanghaiese (aka. LA). [Translation: “Are you from the North?” is suppposedly the ultimate sought-after compliment to a Shanghaiese amongst her friends from the North.]
I crave attention but I tried erasing myself fromt the Internet.
- I deleted my photos from Weibo (Chinese Twitter) after being ghosted by a creep.
- I erased my digital fingerprints so it’s harder to Google me.
- I deactivated my LinkedIn when I had 500+ rock-solid CXO connections. I convinced myself that for my future line of work in the entertainment industry, IMDB would be the place to be. I don’t need LinkedIn. It’s for phonies and corporate climbers.
- My public profile doesn’t matter. I should focus on my work, my screenplays.
Even when I started my podcast, or this blog, I call myself YZ to feel safe, to dodge bullets if people start trashing me.
Here is the thing: I simply don’t know how Madonna does it, or the likes of Beyoncé, Taylor Swift, Adele, Lady Gaga… or the Kadasians.
Where their successes are public, more so are their humiliations.
I often wonder what they do when their parents, their significant others, their children, their close friends and relatives learn about the excruciating details of their scandals with the world.
How can they live with the live-streaming of people smacking down their skeletons?
How would they ever face the public when the world knows their private parts better than their gynecologists?
So they spend the million dollars they’ve earned by being exposed and try to seek equilibrium via locking themselves within the multi-million-dollar bastilles in the not-so-hidden Hidden Hills.
But the question I’m wrestling with is this:
Can the rest of us be shame·less, fear·less if the Diva ain’t in our DNA?
After hurdling over some quasi-major pschological barrier, I posted my podcast on my personal FB page. I felt like I was pole-dancing, stark naked.
Now everyone knows my age, my humiliations, my pains, my fuck-ups.
Every potential guest I approach now would know my secrets.
They can laugh behind my back should they choose to.
If they care enough to look me up, that is.
Why the fuck would I care about whether if people care, anyway?
I, not somebody else, exposed me. I exchanged my privacy for exposure. No pain, no gain. But this, isn’t my cure.
I would practise Hip-Hop moves whenever I’m in front of a mirror.
People shouted at me, “Dude, are you totally mental? Stop it. Or we’ll send you to the madhouse.”
I just didn’t give a rat’s ass. How could I improve my steps and care about what others think at the same time?
People get used to you overtime. If they don’t, they don’t.
I move on. I find somewhere else to dance.
Somewhere with an audience, who loves and appreciates me.
My guest, a Chinese filmmaker with shoulder-length long hair and bright yellow eyeglass frame, beamed as he shared his Journey to the West. I shook his hand as we finished the recording.
I’m a chameleon. I’m done impersonating.