Zayn Malik is a former member of One Direction. He left the group today, and wrote an essay for jeffpearlman.com explaining why …
I am 22, and I’m tired of this shit.
I’m sorry, but it’s true. Do you know what it feels like, having a bunch of 14-year-old girls screaming your name, crying at your presence, dreaming of running away with you? Shit, why would anyone wanna run away with me? I smoke, like, a pack a day. I jerk off to Mandy Moore posters. Our stylist picks out everything I wear. Truth be told, I’m just a figment of your imagination; a fantasy that can’t possibly meet your oddball reality. And you wanna know something? Our music blows. I mean, it’s really awful. Repetitious. Unimaginative. Forced. I grew up listening to the Stones and the Clash, and now a bunch of brainwashed pre-teens sob when I walk by? It makes no sense. I’m the one who should be sobbing, having to lip-synch this nonsense for 240 days every year.
Oh, and here’s another thing: Me and the guys from One Direction? We’re not friends. We’re co-workers. All those posters with us arm and arm, hugging, goofin’? They’re nonsense. Truly, I’ve never met four bigger self-indulgent, talent-deprived assholes in my life. If I’m Jordan Knight, they’re Danny Woods. All of you who love Harry? Guess what? His real name is Mordy, he was never circumcised and he wets himself at night. How about Niall? He’s 42, has a wife and three kids, believes aliens harvested his brain with beads of corn. And don’t get me started about Liam. Two words: Scientology. Nutjob.
So, yeah, I’m leaving. For good. There’ll be no reunion tour, no comeback. Three years from now, when the guys are playing stage 3 at the Buffalo County Fair, I’ll be kicking back in Jamaica, where I’m opening my very own juice bar.
PS: I’m in a relationship. His name is Roy.
* It’s all parody. To be clear.