#BIEBERROAST ❋ Suzanna Derewicz
Covered in dollar store brand VapoRub, stinging my eyes
I cough up a paper bill on the walk to Comedy Central. Order takeout
of considerable size (I haven’t eaten anything today but the can
of Campbell’s soup. Messed up my stove). I consider the Roast
of Justin Bieber, of which I am sure to check the expiry date. I consider
how it was released eight months before my friends and I suddenly started
defending his music to our other friends, following him on Spotify, suddenly.
While they had to go and get angry at all of our honesty, we hid away
our cell screens on morning commutes. I put on the Roast –
dipping my sleeve in two-day old chamomile, I watch this
teenage Judas basted on his birthday by a person like me, whose intro, bio
before a feature, in a lit mag, is longer than any Wikipedia page they will ever own.
Or by a person who is “famous for exposing Bill Cosby, and only
exposing Bill Cosby.” Or, the most successful rappers of 2001 who do their best.
Encourage 21-year-old doggy dogs not to pool that same infectious smear
I’ve pooled on my shirt today, the one with the basketballs.
I imagine being Shaq’s favourite poet (sorry).
I imagine being on Ellen fourteen times and being called legend when I am
#OLDASFUCK. I imagine eight months from now, sitting in a recording studio – or
maybe just a studio apartment – waiting
like he did for PURPOSE to drop. For the prize to come in, for my contest result.
For that e-mail from Prism or CV2, for my lines to get longer. For the line ups
of my fantasy book signings to get longer. For my friends to start defending me
(to my other friends). For Tylenol – sorry.