No, Kanye West, we are here, everywhere; our presence doesn’t make you stronger, better, or faster—it saps your energy, your power, and your talent slowly, simply, easily. We pull the tears out of your eyes, we break down your music, and we made you a national pariah.
We were there when President Obama, called you “a jackass,” and we saw you cry into your pillow, weakened by the weight of the world’s hate on your slowly crumpling figure. We are the reason no one likes your crop-circle haircuts, why your glasses are suddenly unfashionable; we have been working on you for years. And it has paid off.
No one likes you, Kanye West. You are truly alone, surrounded by screaming masses, which are no longer fawning over you with their complements, but are now hurling insults at you like stones at a witch. We know you, Kanye West. We know you very, very well.
And we know how to destroy you, and no matter where you run, no matter how thick your shutter-shades are, or how alien your pathetic haircuts may be, we will find you.
We allowed you to rise to prominence, like Oedipus or Othello before you, so that your fall will be more catastrophic, more agonizing, and more obvious. Your pain will be the subject of myth and lore, your name, “Kanye West,” will be forever associated with those of the great tragic characters; one day, audiences will weep when they see your story performed on stage.
As you grew, we slowly surrounded you, implanting in you the tragedy that would surely befall you; you have a fate, Kanye West, and years and years of pain await you. We have written it for you—constructed it before you were born. We know you so intimately, Kanye West, because we are you.
You are, and have always been, one of us.
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