It can be strange, sometimes, to be me. I’m the wealthiest man on the planet, for starters. Leaders across America, and indeed the world, look to me as a visionary driving technological progress in areas from transportation, to communication, to becoming a multi-planetary species. The kinds of projects I’m involved in would blow most people’s minds. To the outside observer, I’m sure it seems like I have it all. And maybe I do. Although I’d like to make one simple request:
Please like me.
Please, for the love of all that is holy, consider me clever and interesting.
Honestly, I don’t get why anyone wouldn’t like me. I do cool stuff. I make cars. People like cars, don’t they? I make stonks go to the moon. Isn’t that cool? Isn’t making stonks go to the moon something people like? Seriously, c’mon. Appreciate me. I was on Rick And Morty. Wubba lubba dub dub, right? People love that show! I like to hang out. I microdose acid, a cool drug. Remember that time I went on Joe Rogan’s podcast and smoked that joint? Who else would be crazy enough to do that but me?
God, I’m lonely.
I spent nine hours on Twitter today. For a few of those hours, I was reading and responding to tweets while on my private jet being whisked from Austin to San Francisco and back again. Picture me, if you will, sitting in a comfortable seat on my own airplane, zooming through the clouds from one important meeting to another. I should be sipping a cocktail and loving life, right? Instead, I’m up there growing more and more depressed as I read hundreds—nay, thousands—of replies, quote tweets, and subtweets from people insulting me and my projects. Why? Why do people do this? Why don’t you like me?
All I want is for you to be nice to me. Please be nice to me. Please be my friend. Will you be my friend?
You can even just pretend to be my friend, if you want.
Please.
Even my children don’t really seem to like me. Although to be fair, I’m not sure how many of them there are. One or two of them might like me.
If just a few more people like me, maybe I’ll feel better. Will you help me out? Will you like me?
Please like me.
Do you like crypto? I do. Although if you don’t like crypto, I don’t like it, either. Anything to make you like me.
Do you want to have a sleepover at my mansion? Pick a time, and I’ll be there.
Please.
How about I make you a flamethrower?
I’ll do whatever you want.
Seriously. I will do anything. I will shitpost. I will call that diver a pedophile again. I will pretend to go to space as many times as you want.
Please. Please. I am begging you.
PLEASE.
Please.
PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE.
Because look: Frankly, it’s not enough to have spent my childhood wanting for nothing due to my father’s massive wealth, to have struck it rich off of a fairly dull money-transfer service idea that I didn’t even come up with, to have alienated and berated everyone I’ve ever worked with, to lie repeatedly that I was the original founder of Tesla, to amass enormous wealth off of taxpayer-funded subsidies while insisting that I’m self-made, to wield my influence and inane ideas for unworkable projects to prevent actual functional improvements in multiple cities, to receive uncritical adulation from the fawning business and tech presses, to foster a repressive and even racist workplace in my factories replete with numerous labor violations, all in the name of making cars that don’t even really fucking work—no. It’s not enough. What I desperately, desperately need is for you to think that I’m cool and funny. I need this. Please give me that satisfaction.
I brutally tortured some monkeys for literally no reason, for Christ’s sake! That’s so cool! Doesn’t that count for anything?
I’m cool. You know I’m cool.
Please.
It’s such bullshit. I spend two hours scrolling through Reddit for the perfect week-old conservative meme to post, and all the thanks I get for my dedication to the lulz is a bunch of nobodies attacking me. It almost makes me wonder why the hell I continue subjecting myself to this.
Oh, right—it’s that I’m hopelessly in need of your approval. Me, a 50-year-old man with the net worth of a decent-size country, forced to stoop to bizarre and pathetic stunts for attention. Either that, or cultivating a personal brand of eccentricity generates publicity and financial support that I can then leverage to distract from my essentially fraudulent business endeavors. Yes, it’s one of those two things for sure.
Please like me. I need this. I really do. I’m sad. Please.
This fucking sucks.