Imagine you're Justin Bieber last night at the Heat-Pacers game.
You felt almost unrecognizable. At first, you kinda liked it. "Yeah, this is how real people experience the world," you thought. Your face, simply one of many anonymous mugs in a sea of white shirts cheering on LeBron and the boys. Go Heat! you said to yourself, smugly.
"That's cool though. Right?" you asked yourself nervously, crossing your arms. You're good, wearing a black leather bodysuit in the summertime. Sure everyone else was wearing white, but you didn't know that's how they do in the 305. You're Canadian, and not the kind that flocks to Hallandale for a January sunburn.
It was totally chill that no one was looking at you. You were getting used to it, in fact. You were to there root for the Heat in your white-washed-jean-looking Miami snapback. It's aight. That's why you wore those sunglasses to a night game. They helped you blend in, deflecting attention from the cow flesh draping your chest.
Cause you didn't need all that recognition from these people. You reassured yourself that the Beliebers provide you with all the love you could ever want. You weren't jealous of Norris Cole's awesome flattop or the Birdman's showy 'do. That's so desperate of them. Everyone knew you, and your hair was hidden under this rad cap. You relaxed then, as a paparazzo snapped a shot.
You didn't have to be noticed every second of every day. Never mind that you sold out this, the American Airlines Arena, two nights in a row last year, and like every other arena in the world like since you were 16, and you didn't need a whole team to pack a place.
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But really, why was no one looking at you?! You had all that swag! The cameras were on D. Wade. Didn't they see you with that doggy tag? It identified you as THE Justin Bieber! And those gold chains Lil Twist helped you pick out; they're so freaking slick! You closed your eyes and pretended they're cheering for you: "Let's go Biebs! Let's go Biebs!" And then the White Stripes chant dragged you back to reality. "Fuck the Heat! Fuck the Heat!" you thought spitefully.
Why is everyone looking at Flo Rida courtside? And fucking David Beckham is here? Jesus H...
By the end of the show, you harnessed all of your energy to not jump around, kicking things, screeching: "I'M KING BIEBER! Hail me, motherfuckers! Love my leather suit! You LIKE this tattoo of a growling tiger. It's AWESOME, and you betta BELIEBE IT!"
But you're too cool for all that. So you sauntered on out to your white Ferrari, nearly killing a group of joyous teens while recklessly speeding away, glad, at least, that you hadn't worn a Pacer's hat.
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