Status: two students with procrastinating issues, you guess the status.
With a Little Help from My Friends
Introductions are necessary.
I feel like I am losing it. Who am I? Who have I become? What has happened to my friends? Will we ever be as close as we were before this explosion of fame happened? Could I care any less for them than I do now? These questions run through my mind like a freight train. All other thoughts are blocked out and murdered by these bulky questions. The first one haunts me. Who am I, really? Just who the fuck am I? Am I any different than you? You could have easily been me. I could easily be you. But the thing is that you are not me. I am not you. And I just have to fucking deal with the shit life I have. I just want to be normal.
Suck it up, kid. At least I am not dying of starvation or trying to immigrate to another country to have a better life for my family. But I am not and I don’t care. I don’t fucking care anymore. I cannot do this. I can’t be the stone of our band anymore. The rock everyone clings to for dear life. Everyone eats me up and spits me back without a second thought. Do these guys care what is going through my mind? Do I matter to them?
I feel like sometimes I don’t belong with them. They were my friends. But now I think of them as just my band mates. I can’t tell these guys what is going in my head without the fear of being laughed at or completely ignored. They just want the attention all to themselves. I am a shy and quiet guy, okay? I don’t starve for attention. Unnecessary attention gives me rashes. I want to crawl under a table and disappear.
This doesn’t make sense. Please, make sense of my life.
In less than an hour I won’t have to see their ugly faces anymore. I finally get a break from these pricks. They can get attention from someone else. I won’t have to hear their petty problems anymore. Instead a therapist can hear my problems. It is stupid. I have one breakdown on tour and the manager is forcing me to see someone to fix my problems. I admit that I have problems. But I don’t want to tell some stranger that I am fucked and ask for their help. I have people issues. Hey manager, were you not aware of that when I flipped out on a roadie and shoved him down a flight of stairs then smashed a guitar? Fuck you.
So goodbye ‘friends’ and hello Washington. Hello secluded cabin. Goodbye stinking tour clothes. Hello psycho doctor. Goodbye screaming fans. I never needed your voices to feel like a better man. My friends will deeply miss you. All I have to say is fu--
“Hey man, are you okay?” A skinny boy says from behind me. One of his hands slides onto my shoulder. I just stare at his hand then at his face. His brown eyes are sparkling. There could be a hurricane outside or a mass murder and this kid would still look happy and pleasant. “You looked a little out of it. Sad that we are going to be split up? Going to miss me, right?” A lopsided grin is on his face. I want to take his hand and snap it in two.
My ass gets numb. I shift my weight on the hotel bed and mindlessly nod. “Yeah, of course.”
Both of his eyebrows peak in the middle. Without saying anything he hugs me. This is a guy that has been getting on my last nerves and his arms are wrapped around me. I lightly pat his back. He grabs his ticket for Las Vegas and remaining suitcase.
Maybe there is something wrong with me. I bottle things in and never express myself like I want to. Like I said I am shy and quiet. And now turning out to be the morose type. I should go into this therapy thing with a more open mind. It could help.
Yeah fucking right. Who am I kidding?
I pick up my own plane ticket and duffle bag. The hotel room door swings open nearly missing my head. “Watch it!” I yell as I jump backward.
It was another band mate. Two down, one more to go. He looks out of it, spacey. “Sorry. I left my jacket in the bathroom. Have you seen my other flop?” A puzzled look is on my face. Before I can even question why he would only have one flip flop he sidesteps around me and dashes into the bathroom. His single sandal clacks in a lonely sound with each quick move. A black jacket exits the bathroom before he does. “Found them both! The flop and the jack.” A grin is on his face. I just continue to have a blank stare. He scans me up and down before making a strange face. “Are you okay? You look sick.”
‘I am sick with all of you finally paying attention to me and asking what is wrong with me.’ My head shakes side to side. “I have no clue what you are on about. I am fine. What about yourself?”
His shoulders rise and fall in a definitive sigh. “Check you later.” The two of us exit the hotel room. A weight falls off my heart. It feels easier to breathe knowing that I will soon be escaping this. I just wonder how many late night phone calls I am going to get from these guys crying about their miserable lives. And as I think this the biggest man child I know sulks over to me.
“I don’t know why you bought a cabin in Washington. We are supposed to move out to LA together. Get places near each other. Have you really cracked up?”
I think I hate him the most. A small look of anger flashes on my face before slipping into a frown. “I need to busk it out on my own. I need to sink or swim. I can’t do that with you as a floatie.” Honestly, he would be more of a cement block tied to my leg. I know I can make it without him. It is he who cannot make it without me. Sink or swim, bitch.
His head cocks to the side in an innocent manner. Don’t be fooled like I have been for years. This Peter Pan diseased guy is not innocent in the slightest. “You are going to call me during this break, right? We’ll meet up sometime in either LA or Washington.”
“Sure.” I nod and quietly drift away from him. My plane leaves the earliest. I leave by myself mainly because I can’t stand another second of their company.
I climb into a taxi after the ordeal of saying goodbye and trying to sound sincere. I have been faking it for so long that no one can tell. Maybe that is why no cares for me. I am not even real anymore.
The taxi stops at the airport. Checked in, passed through security, sitting in airplane seat. In first class because I don’t want to be hassled with fans. I am fine with them. I don’t need them. I just don’t want to explode in one of their faces. I am a ticking time bomb. ‘Spencer Smith, you are sick.’ I know. Thanks for the fake concern. Leave the flowers on the table and don’t let the door hit you on your ass as you leave. Don’t call me. Don’t even remember I exist. No one else does.
Suck it up, kid. At least I am not dying of starvation or trying to immigrate to another country to have a better life for my family. But I am not and I don’t care. I don’t fucking care anymore. I cannot do this. I can’t be the stone of our band anymore. The rock everyone clings to for dear life. Everyone eats me up and spits me back without a second thought. Do these guys care what is going through my mind? Do I matter to them?
I feel like sometimes I don’t belong with them. They were my friends. But now I think of them as just my band mates. I can’t tell these guys what is going in my head without the fear of being laughed at or completely ignored. They just want the attention all to themselves. I am a shy and quiet guy, okay? I don’t starve for attention. Unnecessary attention gives me rashes. I want to crawl under a table and disappear.
This doesn’t make sense. Please, make sense of my life.
In less than an hour I won’t have to see their ugly faces anymore. I finally get a break from these pricks. They can get attention from someone else. I won’t have to hear their petty problems anymore. Instead a therapist can hear my problems. It is stupid. I have one breakdown on tour and the manager is forcing me to see someone to fix my problems. I admit that I have problems. But I don’t want to tell some stranger that I am fucked and ask for their help. I have people issues. Hey manager, were you not aware of that when I flipped out on a roadie and shoved him down a flight of stairs then smashed a guitar? Fuck you.
So goodbye ‘friends’ and hello Washington. Hello secluded cabin. Goodbye stinking tour clothes. Hello psycho doctor. Goodbye screaming fans. I never needed your voices to feel like a better man. My friends will deeply miss you. All I have to say is fu--
“Hey man, are you okay?” A skinny boy says from behind me. One of his hands slides onto my shoulder. I just stare at his hand then at his face. His brown eyes are sparkling. There could be a hurricane outside or a mass murder and this kid would still look happy and pleasant. “You looked a little out of it. Sad that we are going to be split up? Going to miss me, right?” A lopsided grin is on his face. I want to take his hand and snap it in two.
My ass gets numb. I shift my weight on the hotel bed and mindlessly nod. “Yeah, of course.”
Both of his eyebrows peak in the middle. Without saying anything he hugs me. This is a guy that has been getting on my last nerves and his arms are wrapped around me. I lightly pat his back. He grabs his ticket for Las Vegas and remaining suitcase.
Maybe there is something wrong with me. I bottle things in and never express myself like I want to. Like I said I am shy and quiet. And now turning out to be the morose type. I should go into this therapy thing with a more open mind. It could help.
Yeah fucking right. Who am I kidding?
I pick up my own plane ticket and duffle bag. The hotel room door swings open nearly missing my head. “Watch it!” I yell as I jump backward.
It was another band mate. Two down, one more to go. He looks out of it, spacey. “Sorry. I left my jacket in the bathroom. Have you seen my other flop?” A puzzled look is on my face. Before I can even question why he would only have one flip flop he sidesteps around me and dashes into the bathroom. His single sandal clacks in a lonely sound with each quick move. A black jacket exits the bathroom before he does. “Found them both! The flop and the jack.” A grin is on his face. I just continue to have a blank stare. He scans me up and down before making a strange face. “Are you okay? You look sick.”
‘I am sick with all of you finally paying attention to me and asking what is wrong with me.’ My head shakes side to side. “I have no clue what you are on about. I am fine. What about yourself?”
His shoulders rise and fall in a definitive sigh. “Check you later.” The two of us exit the hotel room. A weight falls off my heart. It feels easier to breathe knowing that I will soon be escaping this. I just wonder how many late night phone calls I am going to get from these guys crying about their miserable lives. And as I think this the biggest man child I know sulks over to me.
“I don’t know why you bought a cabin in Washington. We are supposed to move out to LA together. Get places near each other. Have you really cracked up?”
I think I hate him the most. A small look of anger flashes on my face before slipping into a frown. “I need to busk it out on my own. I need to sink or swim. I can’t do that with you as a floatie.” Honestly, he would be more of a cement block tied to my leg. I know I can make it without him. It is he who cannot make it without me. Sink or swim, bitch.
His head cocks to the side in an innocent manner. Don’t be fooled like I have been for years. This Peter Pan diseased guy is not innocent in the slightest. “You are going to call me during this break, right? We’ll meet up sometime in either LA or Washington.”
“Sure.” I nod and quietly drift away from him. My plane leaves the earliest. I leave by myself mainly because I can’t stand another second of their company.
I climb into a taxi after the ordeal of saying goodbye and trying to sound sincere. I have been faking it for so long that no one can tell. Maybe that is why no cares for me. I am not even real anymore.
The taxi stops at the airport. Checked in, passed through security, sitting in airplane seat. In first class because I don’t want to be hassled with fans. I am fine with them. I don’t need them. I just don’t want to explode in one of their faces. I am a ticking time bomb. ‘Spencer Smith, you are sick.’ I know. Thanks for the fake concern. Leave the flowers on the table and don’t let the door hit you on your ass as you leave. Don’t call me. Don’t even remember I exist. No one else does.