Heroes Exist (I'm Just Not One of Them)
EIGHTEEN
I know what I did.
You know what I did, I know you do, so don’t fucking lie.
Hell, the whole world knows what I did.
And damn me if they won't let me forget it.
It's because I was a big shot before It happened. Yes, yes, I am going to clichély reference the event with capital letters because that's only appropriate. Doing otherwise would be akin to writing "holocaust" instead of "The Holocaust." It would be an incredible understatement of the magnitude of the event. There's a reason God and even His pronouns are capitalized. Magnitude is key.
It happened and It happened to propel me even further to stardom, except in a horrible, horrible way.
Have you ever messed up? Messed up so badly that everyone does nothing but remind you of what you did wrong, day in and day out? No?
Oh.
Well, then fuck you.
I don’t have that privilege.
They call me a hero, but damn it all if it doesn't sound suspiciously like "Asshole", or "Fuck you", or "It's all your fault".
I never asked for this.
Sure, fame is all well and good, and yeah, I’ll admit to being a little bit ambitious— name one person who isn’t and I’ll show you a dirty liar— but I was happy with my station in life before It happened. It’s just an unnecessary grievance. (Ha! Look at me, calling Hell an unnecessary grievance. Look ma, still got my humor.)
No, I was already living the dream prior to: I was a rock star. Every kid’s dream, right? I had money. Didn’t have to worry about much beyond keeping the fans happy. Couldn’t it have just stopped there?
No, life had to go and shit on my parade. Guess that’s how it goes.
Could probably just quote Vonnegut, but that’s probably copyrighted or something.
God. This is how I spend my days: madly rambling and struggling to fill the hours with caffeine , booze and nicotine. Sure sounds like the life, doesn’t it?
What I wouldn’t give to have everything go back to normal.
A knock on my door interrupts my thoughts. It can only by one of three people.
“Not in the mood,” I say listlessly.
There’s a tense silence, hesitation palpable.
I’ve gotten good at telling who’s on the other side without opening the door. If they leave immediately, or ask me pretty please, or “I miss you”, it’s Heather. If they knock three times and say “It’s been X number of days since you’ve last eaten, man”, it’s Neil. If they knock and then wait (record’s set at three hours and seventeen minutes), it’s Benni.
A few minutes pass, and then Benni (called it) says, “All right, fine.”
I direct my attention back to the paper in front of me. Started this damn thing last week. Lyrics. Band, remember?
The words won’t come. I’m stuck sitting here staring at an ink-stained sheet of paper, mired in my thoughts, instead of doing my job. Goddamn, it’s the only thing I need to do. One job.
My gaze lingers a little too long on an empty bottle of whiskey that sits discarded on the window sill.
No. No. Last time I tried using alcohol as my muse, Neil threatened to kick me from the band.
(It wasn’t that the lyrics were bad. In fact, they were incredible. Neil just refused to “encourage” my drunken genius.)
My throat barks for a drink regardless.
You know what?
Fuck this shit. I’m out.
You know what I did, I know you do, so don’t fucking lie.
Hell, the whole world knows what I did.
And damn me if they won't let me forget it.
It's because I was a big shot before It happened. Yes, yes, I am going to clichély reference the event with capital letters because that's only appropriate. Doing otherwise would be akin to writing "holocaust" instead of "The Holocaust." It would be an incredible understatement of the magnitude of the event. There's a reason God and even His pronouns are capitalized. Magnitude is key.
It happened and It happened to propel me even further to stardom, except in a horrible, horrible way.
Have you ever messed up? Messed up so badly that everyone does nothing but remind you of what you did wrong, day in and day out? No?
Oh.
Well, then fuck you.
I don’t have that privilege.
They call me a hero, but damn it all if it doesn't sound suspiciously like "Asshole", or "Fuck you", or "It's all your fault".
I never asked for this.
Sure, fame is all well and good, and yeah, I’ll admit to being a little bit ambitious— name one person who isn’t and I’ll show you a dirty liar— but I was happy with my station in life before It happened. It’s just an unnecessary grievance. (Ha! Look at me, calling Hell an unnecessary grievance. Look ma, still got my humor.)
No, I was already living the dream prior to: I was a rock star. Every kid’s dream, right? I had money. Didn’t have to worry about much beyond keeping the fans happy. Couldn’t it have just stopped there?
No, life had to go and shit on my parade. Guess that’s how it goes.
Could probably just quote Vonnegut, but that’s probably copyrighted or something.
God. This is how I spend my days: madly rambling and struggling to fill the hours with caffeine , booze and nicotine. Sure sounds like the life, doesn’t it?
What I wouldn’t give to have everything go back to normal.
A knock on my door interrupts my thoughts. It can only by one of three people.
“Not in the mood,” I say listlessly.
There’s a tense silence, hesitation palpable.
I’ve gotten good at telling who’s on the other side without opening the door. If they leave immediately, or ask me pretty please, or “I miss you”, it’s Heather. If they knock three times and say “It’s been X number of days since you’ve last eaten, man”, it’s Neil. If they knock and then wait (record’s set at three hours and seventeen minutes), it’s Benni.
A few minutes pass, and then Benni (called it) says, “All right, fine.”
I direct my attention back to the paper in front of me. Started this damn thing last week. Lyrics. Band, remember?
The words won’t come. I’m stuck sitting here staring at an ink-stained sheet of paper, mired in my thoughts, instead of doing my job. Goddamn, it’s the only thing I need to do. One job.
My gaze lingers a little too long on an empty bottle of whiskey that sits discarded on the window sill.
No. No. Last time I tried using alcohol as my muse, Neil threatened to kick me from the band.
(It wasn’t that the lyrics were bad. In fact, they were incredible. Neil just refused to “encourage” my drunken genius.)
My throat barks for a drink regardless.
You know what?
Fuck this shit. I’m out.