The Paparazzi

Ever since he was very little, Donald had felt like someone was watching him. If he did not know any better he would have even thought it was going on before he was born (and of course it actually was).

The incessant clicking of cameras and crowding around him had driven him mad at times.  Now don’t get me wrong, everyone likes a bit of attention now of then.  But this was attention of steroids!

It was not his imagination, no matter where he went they were soon to follow.

The part that annoyed him even more than the crowds was the ability they had to see the beads of water on his forehead, or the food in the corner of his mouth from a mile away, as if they were just inches away. You could be going about your business and never have the slightest clue they were watching—recording EVERYTHING!

They even seemed to get great delight in watching him sleep–or even scratching himself. All the planning, and hiding, and running away were of almost no use. Even when it was pouring down rain they would still be there—but only the most aggressive ones. There simply was no privacy. It was like he was in a fish bowl, with all their deformed and magnified faces glaring in at him.

Only the most remote locations held any refuge, but these locations were often not where he would choose to go—if he had a choice.

Why couldn’t they simply leave him in peace?

And now that he had a girl friend, it had gone from bad to worse. It seemed they were intent on catching him and his girlfriend in their most intimate moments.

When the paparazzi turn into “peeping Tom,” it just gets a little creepy.

It is funny how no matter how bad things get it always seems as if there is room for more.

Perhaps it is time to stalk the Paparazzi.




What are you looking at?
What are you looking at?

Charles Buell

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