On those particular days when I’m feeling weary, feeling small, when tears are in my eyes, Art Garfunkel comes and dries them all.
But on the particular days that Art doesn’t stop by to say “heeeyyy!”, and my self-esteem and confidence are at an all-time low, I think of another man.
A purple man.
A 5’2″ larger than life man.
A sexy, sexy man.
When I feel like shit about myself, I ponder, “What would Prince do?”
Would Prince sit there curled up on his bed, with a bottle of red wine that he opened with a pen because he doesn’t have a cork screw because he likes to think he doesn’t drink, and feel sorry for himself?
He’d get out of that bed, go find a stage somewhere, hold the bottle up against his crotch, pop that cork, spray the crowd with the wine, and sing “Purple Rain”.
Would Prince cry purple tears when one of his respective under-aged girlfriends would leave him in a fit of jealousy?
He would write a power ballad about her, then go play the song for girlfriend No. 2, tell No. 2 it’s about her, and then have amazing Prince sex with her.
Does Prince question every choice he’s made or feeling he’s ever had?
Do you think he spent hours wondering if using “4” instead of “for” and “2” instead of “to” was a good idea? Or if wearing an ass-less unitard seemed too gay?
Prince rolled with his shit!
And that’s what I have to do.
Come up with shit and roll with it.
Fake it until you make it.
That’s what Prince does.
Prince doesn’t care how people perceive him. He doesn’t apologize for ANYTHING!
I’ll never forget…I was at a photo exhibit for a rock n’ roll photographer. She had these wonderfully intimate portraits and live shots of popular musicians in the early 80’s. I’m scanning the wall, studying each photograph intently. I get to a picture of Prince and it’s just of his bush.
He was wearing a lamé speedo and had pubes coming out of every which direction.
They were slowly taking over his whole body.
I look at Prince’s smiling face. He knew his pubes were awesome. He was giving me that look, “Baby, these pubes are for you.”
So when I begin questioning myself, for example, with something like “Hey, Lauren, maybe texting that boy more than once though he never responds might seem a little dumb?” I now think, “No, no it’s not. If I were Prince, I would show up at that guy’s house in my lamé hot shorts, pubes hanging out everywhere, phallic guitar strapped to my chest, a raging jheri curl, and sing: “baby, what does it take 2 have u text me back? is it another girl? does she wear diamonds and pearls? boy, i love the way your body moves. there ain’t nothing that’s gonna keep me from u. i think i love u.”