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I’msofucking done with today and their bullshit.
I’m tired as fuck, jet-lagged to the point I can barely function, and I have the migraine from hell pounding my sleep-deprived brain from all directions.
Me and my guys, we love the music, we love the stage, and we fucking love our fans, but damn, some days you just wanna sayfuck itto the wholebeing-part-of-a-famous-rock-bandthing and just crawl into bed and sleep for a whole damn week.
Then again, if Ididquit, even if only for a while, my friends would be devastated, I would feel like I was dead inside, and my fans would feel betrayed.
The only ones who would be damn happy about it would be those soulless bloodsuckers of my parents, and just the idea of spiting them and all the preppy goody-two-shoes crap they tried to foist on me over the years gives me enough energy to keep going.
Sly, Rick, and I have been all over the world, and maybe we should have taken a more extended break before starting our US tour. Still, everybody wants a piece of us. Our manager is another gold-digging bastard who would have us play in our sleep if he could or just do away with sleep entirely if we let him —it’s not like he hasn’t tried that shit before, pushing pills and stuff on us like there was no tomorrow, so we couldperform better— and that’s how we ended up playing back-to-back concerts for the last three months after being away from home for a fucking year to play overseas.
We’resodone with this crap. As of three hours ago, he’s jobless, and as of the end of this week, so will that pack of heartless hyenas that makes up our PR team be.
We’ve been playing non-stop. We’ve done Houston, Dallas, Phoenix, Salt Lake City, Las Vegas, San Diego, Sacramento, and then from there, Austin and Atlanta. Then, because our manager is a fuck, we got only a lousy three-day break, flipped the fuck around, and did Chicago, Boston, New York, Philadelphia, and Detroit with no fucking breaks in-between.
Now we’re here in D.C. finally, slated to be on stage in the Capital One Arena in little over twenty-four hours, and we’re on the last city of the East Coast leg of the tour.
It wasn't supposed to be this way. We had Canadian dates too: Toronto, Montreal, and Vancouver, but our tour manager is also a big fuck-up and, true to his nature, fucked-up big time, and we had to postpone those. Our fans over there were understandably displeased, so we added another two cities to the mini-tour we will be doing in a little while to appease them: Ottawa and Calgary. Now I’m starting to think it’s a good thing he fucked up because we’re so damn tired, and Rick especially is in no shape to keep going at this rhythm —no pun intended. We landed this morning and went straight to the Arena to make sure all was well with the equipment that was shipped ahead of us and with the stage, the lights, and all that jazz, and he almost fainted in the limo on the way there. Not that Sly and I were faring that much better, to be honest, but at least we were conscious. Then again, Ididalmost pass out in the car on the way here, so I guess I’m not doing that much better after all.
We all need a fucking break.
Performing is the life we chose, the life we love. The three of us, we had options and alternatives. We come from three of the most stuck-up wealthy families in New York City. We could be wearing suits right now and be trapped in boring meetings all day. Or we could just be jet-setting all over Manhattan being nothing but trust fund spoiled brats —God knows our parents would be way happier with that kind of life.
But we wanted nothing to do with that crap and decided we would focus on music and let the rest fall away.
We put our band together because we love music. Nothing comes before it. Nothing ever has. But, fuck, some days, the mundane aspects of this gig could turn any performer into a jaded, bitter bastard.
Behind the glitz and the glamour of fame, life on the road is tough.
Dealing with the Press, with the groupies, and spending more time on airplanes than with our feet on the ground. Driving all day, every day on our bus, always strange rooms, strange beds, strange places, and strange people all around us. Paparazzi following us, crazy chicks throwing themselves at us, jealous boyfriends hounding us on hearsay, and pushers trying to hook us on new shit when we try so hard to just be musicians, play our tracks and just try and stay real, stay whole in a world that just wants to rip us apart all the time.
Shit sure takes the shine off things and definitely takes its toll even on the most passionate artist.
And some days, you just really want to sayfuck it. Today is one of those days.
We got here straight from Detroit, and the damn flight almost gave me a heart attack. We’ve been jetting all over the world with no issues, sometimes even crossing the skies for nine hours straight, and that fucking asshole amateur pilot today almost managed to kill us all in a little over one hour and a half in the air.
The entire flight felt more like we were on a damn rollercoaster, and by the time we landed, I was ready to puke my guts all over the place. Even the flight attendants were unsteady on their legs by the time we got off the damn death trap. Again, all because of that idiot fucker of our tour manager who couldn’t wait for my own pilot to get the necessary clearance to get us out of Michigan on the jet in time for the next show.
The three of us must be the only guys who own fucking private jets and yet still end up flying commercial in spite of it.
God, I would re-hire that douchebag of our manager just to get the pleasure of firing him again. Only this time, I would punch him in the nose first.
Damn, I’m so fucking tired! I don’t think I’ve slept more than five hours in total in the last four days, and I’ve been running on too much caffeine and sheer pissed-off energy for the last couple of days, especially. The East Coast concerts have been awesome, but that’s the only good thing I can say about this week.
I stumble my way through the suite and stop near the bed. I look over at the plush comforter and sigh. Plunking face down on the mattress with my boots still on really sounds like heaven right now, but I feel so grim and sweaty, and this damn headache is killing me so much right now that I know if I don’t strip down and take a quick scalding-hot shower first, I will regret it when I wake up –possibly twenty hours from now.
I fish my vibrating phone out of my pocket and take a look at the screen. I’ve got a million missed calls and just as many texts and emails.
I can see most of the log is filled with texts and calls from the soon-to-be-fired members of our PR team. Requests for more interviews, probably.
All stuff that our brainless publicist should have known better than send along.
There’s no way I’m wading through all this bullshit any time soon. I know it’s nothing important.
There are only two people in the world that could contact me right now and have me give a fuck about it, and they’re both probably currently passed out, each in their own suite in this same hotel.
When the caller ID also tells me my family’s lawyer got the balls to ring a few times today, I really see red for a minute. I’m pretty sure I can guess what he wants to talk about on behalf of my sperm donor and the incubator that brought me into this world, and nope… not gonna happen in this lifetime.
