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Sylvia claps with the audience. “Words of wisdom! Don’t you just love this strong and talented woman? I adore her!”
The audience claps their agreement, and I sigh with relief. So far, so good. I don’t think I’ve said anything to make this clip go viral yet, however, unless maybe my mother’s mantra resonates with the internet?
Sylvia shifts her position in her armchair. “Speaking of your tiger’s teeth and claws . . . let’s talk about some of the lyrics on the album. More specifically, some of the inspirations for the lyrics.” She flashes me a side-eye. “Girl, someone did you dirty.”
I join her in chuckling. “I should say, in my defense, I try to get all my murderous impulses out in my songwriting. My mother would be so disappointed if I went to prison for murder.”
Sylvia laughs. “How much are your songs inspired by real people and events?”
“Quite a bit. That’s how I write. Autobiographically.”
“That’s what I thought.” She cocks an eyebrow. “Care to name names?”
What the hell is she doing? Sylvia has to know I never confirm my romantic entanglements, including the inspirations for my songs. In fact, it’s become a “thing” for my fans to decode my lyrics, with the help of internet sleuthing, to try to discern which songs are about which potential exes.
As if reading my mind, Sylvia adds, “I know you don’t usually confirm who or what inspired your songs . . .”
I nod. “I prefer to let the songs speak for themselves.”
“You don’t even confirm your relationships.”
“Correct.”
“No making it ‘Instagram official’ for Laila, huh? Even when there are paparazzi photos basically doing it for you.”
I shrug. “The world can think what it wants. I like keeping my private life private, as best I can. Otherwise, I worry I’ll start to feel like I’m performing in my relationship, rather than being genuinely present in it.”
“That makes sense. I do think that could be a double-edged sword, however. Since you’ve never confirmed or denied anything, rumors become perceived fact, until the whole world is certain they know the full list of your exes, when that might not be the case.”
“Oh, I can confirm that isn’t the case.” I chuckle. “If the internet is to be believed, my list of exes is so long, I’d have a revolving door in my condo.”
“Ooooh,” Sylvia says, wiggling her fingertips. “I like this line of conversation.”
Uh oh.
Sylvia leans forward. “Tell us someone you’ve been linked to, falsely. I respect your privacy, darling, but telling us someone you haven’t dated couldn’t possibly violate it.”
Clever woman.
I normally wouldn’t play this game. But Daria did tell me to make this interview go viral. And what better way to do that than giving Sylvia an “exclusive scoop” about my love life?
“Okay, Sylvia,” I say. “I’ll give you a little something-something. But only because it’s you.”
She squeals. “How exciting!”
I lean forward, like I’m Deep Throat in a parking garage, about to spill a state secret. “Colin Berretta. The drummer for 22 Goats? All the rumors about us having a torrid fling are false. We’re nothing but friends.”
Shoot. The look on Sylvia’s face tells me Colin’s name wasn’t the one she was hoping for. In fact, if this conversation were a game of basketball, I’m pretty sure I just airballed a free throw. It surprises me, to be honest, considering Colin’s high profile since his Calvin Klein underwear campaign. He’s a hot commodity lately. So why isn’t his name doing the trick?
“What a pity,” Sylvia says, apparently trying to salvage my airball. “Colin is gorgeous. Have you seen his Calvin Klein ads?”
“I have. And, yes, he’s a gorgeous man. But we’re just friends.”
“Friends can become more.”
“Not in this case. He’s a really nice guy. And that’s a big problem for me, Sylvia.”
She laughs, along with the audience, and I know I’m onto something here.
I nod solemnly. “Unfortunately, I’ve got a fatal weakness for bad boys, Sylvia.” I lean forward. “I’m that friend you want to slap silly for her horrible choices in men.”
The audience bursts into laughter and applause, and Sylvia visibly perks up.
“Oh, we’ve all been there, sweetie, especially in our twenties.” Sylvia turns to her audience. “Haven’t we all had a ‘bad boy’ phase, against our better judgment?”
Everyone claps and hoots, confirming that, yes, we’ve all had a bad boy phase.
Sylvia winks. “It’s okay, sugar. Take it from me, this is the perfect time in your life to get burned by the deliciously toxic flame of a scorching-hot bad boy.”
“Or two or three,” I mutter, again making Sylvia laugh.
She pats my arm. “It’s okay. How else will you learn to recognize Mr. Right when he finally comes along and treats you right?”
“That’s a lovely spin on an unhealthy addiction. Thank you.”
“It’s not a spin,” Sylvia insists. “The only way to rid yourself of the bad boy addiction is to overdose, go to rehab, and vow to yourself to never relapse.”
