I STEP OUT OF THE LIMO, and there it is, as usual—the roar. As usual. I sound like a total douche. I can’t believe I just thought that. Here I am, about to be interviewed on a national morning TV show, and I’m Mr. Blasé. But I want to be at home with Kelly right now. Last night, we argued, and she fainted, and it scared the hell out of me. I’d rather keep an eye on her than stand here and listen to people scream their heads off at the sight of me. Now I really sound like an ego-maniac. I do have my absolutely neurotic moments: “They aren’t squealing as loudly as they used to.” That’s the thing about going after fame or acceptance or whatever this craziness is—it’s so cliché, but there’s never a point where it’s enough. Because really what a narcissist like me—a fame whore, an actor—is looking for, we’re not ever going to find out there. Until we’re enough inside, all the success and magazine covers will just whip people like me into a weird, insecure frenzy.
