Making the odyssey from the library to the north building every morning takes considerably longer these days than it did while my father was in power. People used to scatter out of the way while I strutted across the tile floor. God forbid if a freshman ran into me while my dad was President, they would grovel at my feet begging for a suspensions vs. expulsion. Now they just laugh at me and throw their health notes at my head.

These extra interactions usually mean that I’m late to my first period class, and that is when things really take a turn. Apparently—and correct me if I’m mistaken—there is this thing called a tardy, or tardé. I’m not confident how it’s pronounced. From what I have gathered, if I am late too many times and collect too many tardies, I will be sent to detention. I used to walk into class late every day; sometimes it would be half over by the time I felt like showing up, and I never got a single tardy. I feel personally attacked.

Another considerable drawback in my loss of power is the fact that hall monitors and the lunch staff are no longer scared to confront me and enforce the rules. Before, I never had to use one of those controlling, brightly colored hall passes. Anytime a figure of authority questioned my passlessness, I simply said, “Hey *insert teacher’s last name*, Kevin won’t want to hear at dinner tonight that you stopped me in the hall, will he?”

Celebrities say all the time in their interviews and poorly-written books that they “Just want to be treated like a normal, everyday person,” but I don’t think they understand what that really entails. I am definitely not that kind of celebrity. I’m the kind of celebrity who clings to every last scrap of fame they can find. I’m the Ryan Seacrest of BSM. Heads up Malia because you will fall from grace, and it will hurt.