Text Me When You Get Back From Heaven.

From the deepest part of your imagination, from the core of your being, could you ever belief something as amazing, and yet as important as this pass you by?

Could you watch a part of your life, a part of you that worked so hard into creating a future for itself; slip away into unknown grasps?

Watch your essence of being, and basically your soul handed, without conviction, into the hands of a despot; dictator.

Okay, okay. I'll stop being so melodramatic. Maybe it wasn't that bad, but it was sort of without its fun time. I certainly didn't like it, and I don't think the members of Breath In Records particularly enjoyed it either.

And now as I walk out into the rainy world, and into my little oblivion, I realize that I am now without work that I thought would last, well forever.

And there I go again. Oh lord, the drama!

Are you confused? Or have you deduced the somewhat measly clues I have spoon fed to you?

I'm a musician, a singer, to be exact. And don't even talk to me about how 'cliché' it was that a singer, especially a country singer - which is what I am, anyway, that a singer like me is talking about how she has lost her job, her livelihood, which I guess go hand in hand, all because of a tiny little controversy.

Honestly.

It all happened over a little dramatic game of cheating. So what if my producer, aka the owner, or founder, or whatever they call them damn people of record labels, had cheated on the big mojo, whatever he's called, anyway the big mojo's daughter.

Who cares? Give him a blow to the brain, get it over with.

You don't have to close down the entire damn foundation of my livelihood, now did he?

But did that he did, and now, as I walk down the street of God knows where, or my hometown, I notice how all the houses look different, not like in Edmonton or Calgary, as soon as you enter the cities, you see a swell of the same houses, all identical.

And I start wondering how anyone can find his or her house in the sea of sameness. In Calgary or Edmonton, of course. Not here.

I'm sounding like a broken record, but at least I'm paraphrasing.

If only my boss/producer wasn't such an infidel. Then none of this would have happened.

There goes the busted record in me again.

----

The future music leaders of our future are gathered around me, or beside me, and I feel a deep sadness when the realization that all these dim-witted bimbos are all the same.

The same red crayon in a box of 160. How is that possible? How is it, even though they very remotely, look different, how can they all sing of the same thing, have the same tectonic background music, and the same sense of devil-may-care humor?

I've by now stretched my arms out and I notice that in the light, I don't look as pale, and I've come to the understanding that I rather like it. So I decide to keep my hands positioned in the same ritualistic, or at least for me, now, position. Trying to make the position look natural, I take a sweep of the room making sure none are looking at me.

Positively sure they aren't, I learn back into my chair with a slouched position. If you can do so while being against a padded black chair.

We were waiting for Mr. Tore, aka my boss/producer, aka the infidel, and the big mojo whatshisface, aka the firer, aka the life ruiner.

They unceremoniously barge through the door, Mr. Tore, hey that rhymes, is panting in an uncontrollable manner and I feel sympathy for the small, waif like creature.

My sister walks through the door, her blonde hair is swaying, and the boy standing behind her can't stop staring.

Pangs of what I assume to be jealousy are coursing through, albeit, I do have a boyfriend, just not a very good one.

Okay, maybe I don't technically have a boyfriend, but I sort of do, that's got to count for something, yes? No? Fine.

"Could I all have you fine ladies attention up here, the meeting is commencing."

Trust the big mojo whatshisface to use words I'll never again find the need to use ever again.

The look-a-likes, aka our future's musical leaders, all turn their heads and smile politely, as if they care, at the big mojo whatshisface.

Its particularly fun watching girls' face when they're trying to concentrate, how they go through 5 different phases of faces every time the big mojo whatshisface says a word out of their vocabulary reach, which I assume is very low on the scale.

I imagine their rotting heads on the pikes of Antoinette's age, and I can't help to internally cackle.

I'm sinister, everyone knows that.

My increasing boredom becomes abhorrent, and my publicist, sitting directly across from me, and yes I do need a publicist, has a becoming abhorrent glaze over her face, her eyes are tense and her mouth is quirked.

I'm an infamous little girl.

What with my scandalous nights rendezvousing with known and unknown individuals. My nights of suave and underage drinking, I was a regular momma's girl.

Or to be more accurate, the girl no one wanted to bring home to his or her parents.

And I was a procrastinator, but that is so off from the point, its in Alaska, dude, Alaska.

Big mojo whatshisface ends the meeting, gives me this glance like he knows I wasn't paying attention.

That man was good.

Even if he is a big fat slob.

He was still good.

We were all dismissed from the room, or the chamber of doom as I so nicely made up in my mind not five seconds ago.

Walking, with a characteristically known slouch on my part, I leave the room, bumping into girls that looked scarily like the girls who belong on Pantene commercials.

"Excuse me, you're bumping into me."

Nice one, Sherlock.

Have you noticed that I don't care?

"Am I?" I give an innocent look, worthy of an Oscar, I admit.

"Terribly sorry, how can I make it up?" Sticky sweet.

She's about to respond when I reply. Snazzily, might I add?

"Oops. Too late. Don't care." Twiddling my fingers are the stricken girl, "toodles, love, keep on making the music, and destroying the music industry that is currently at its full height of good music - sad, I know, so, bye."

How a simple, sarcastic goodbye turned into a rant, God will only ever know.

I do, too.

So I guess its not only God who knows. I tend to go off on tangents.

"Valerie, honestly." My nanny publicist is scolding me and infantilizing me at the same time. How lovely.

The perfect time for the gum I had made a mental note to chew finally came into play. I chewed extra loudly, with my hand resting on my hip, precariously close to making my pants slip down, and my other hand was lazily twitching, yes twitching, and my face held the caricature of pure boredom.

Oh yes.

That annoyed her.

"Could you possibly, Valerie, pay attention? Please?"

She's starting to beg.

"I'm begging of you!"

Told you.

I gave her my sardonic grin and make a mental note to pay attention; maybe not mental.

"Okay. Making a mental note to pay attention."

And then I pick up my imaginary pen and write on my imaginary paper, aka the air in front of me, all the while sporting a look of utter concentration.

I really should go to an audition; I would so get the lead part.

Hell yes.

"That's funny. Very funny."

"Thank you!" I give her my ever-loving and adoring look and she caves.

Too easy.

I sighed and gave her my patented Miley look.

Miley Cyrus. Have you got a problem with my liking a small 15 year old girl notorious for her dad, her Hannah Montana, and to me, her beautiful, gorgeous, hot, amazing brother.

I only have a small huge crush on him.

----

My nanny publicist drops me off at my eyes and I give a sarcastic salute, my specialty is in annoying people and seeming as pathetic as possible.

Needless to say I excel in both areas.

Not to toot my own horn.

Okay, maybe I am tooting my horn, I have a right.

My little sister the she devil runs out to me and her arms are wide and so are her eyes, which brings me back to a certain line from Panic at the Disco's newest song. Her eyes are as wide as the moon

And I don't care if that’s right or not, just pretend I paraphrased if it is wrong.

Her small, skinny arms envelope me in a hug and a sound similar to 'oof' emits from my finely proportionate lips.

"Uhhh-- hello?" I ask with some uncertainty.

"I've just missed you so much!" she squeals.

Something’s wrong with this picture.

"Eh huh?"

"Can't a sister-"

She looks up innocently.

"-Miss her big sister?"

Big brown eyes. Damn.

She's done something.

"Whatdya do, pimp?" I ask, trying to act tough.

The key word is tough.

"Nothinggg, everything is groovy."

"I don't beli-"

Groovy?

"Did you just say groovy?"

"Yes."

"Well..." Pause. "I'm okay with that."

Tis the life of a homeless jobless musician.

I was just hoping they didn't sell my rights and music to some badass company with badass music.

Not that my life at Breath In Records is completely done, there's still some closing contracts or whatever to sign, yes?