…and I know that I’m probably supposed to be ‘mature’, and that I should have shown up here today to give support and congratulations to someone who’s an old friend, but any guy knows that once you’ve stuck your dick in a girl and said ‘I love you’, that she’s not really a friend anymore, and it all gets distorted, and as I’m standing in the back of the wedding still hidden, I see her face and realize how long it’s been since we’ve just talked. And now being here, and seeing the two of them together, standing up there, an arc over their heads as if to signify that their union represents my doorway to hell, I’m so glad that she’s not famous. Because I sure as fuck am, and I had to look at my face at least ten times getting over here, and I know that she sees it and probably doesn’t feel anything anymore either because she’s so rational or she’s just in love with this fucker now.
And I really do have to hide because someone here is going to notice me and when that happens, for one reason or another, shit is going to hit the fan and my cover will be blown and I won’t be able to do…whatever the fuck it is I came here to do. I came here to stop this, one last desperate, cliche, poetic, cinematic attempt to get my girl back before she ties the knot and then any discussion of said reconciliation will include divorce papers. And I almost smeared on the face paint and absurd clothes because I really don’t know what I am without them anymore, it’s been so long since I’ve just been me, and I don’t really know who me is, but I did when I was with her.
And this little fucker looks so normal and clean cut and I lament having fallen for a normal girl, one whose life was always going to inevitably end up here at an alter, and for whom my rock star status does absolutely nothing for, and really it never did, and the only reason she’d be excited when I stepped off the stage to acclaim and praise was because she loved me. And in a way I could blame the lifestyle but it was me who told her to get lost so I could fully commit to it, me who embraced the sideshow and became it, me who didn’t even want our child to be born so that I could spent my nights getting high and fucking girls who would never look at me in the way she did. And I’ve fucked so many of those girls now, and as the fame increased so did the level of culturally mandated beauty, with the females getting hotter and hotter, throwing themselves at me, until I couldn’t even look at an attractive girl without imagining the clothes dropping away and her riding me with the fervor that social brainwashing had put into her. And it was as awesome as you’d think it would be, and I became more and more dead to it, and God help me I’ve abused some of these girls just because the position lets you get away with it.
Then Ziggy told me about the goddamn wedding and I started seeing those girls as Kleenex, useful, but disposable and all of a sudden I’m 16 again, lovesick and flipping shit, breaking up hotel rooms out a sense of desperation, a sense that my bubble had been punctured and all the fantasy was draining out of my life, the Scrooge experience in one second of hearing that the love of your life thought enough of another guy to marry him.
And so here I am, moments before what would become my most infamous incident, stewing in the back, letting the insecurities bubble up until the pot’s about to blow, and suddenly I can’t control it anymore and I start walking forward, that crazy walk where you can tell the person has a sense of purpose behind it, and next thing you know it happens, everyone’s shouting either because some crazy fuck is hauling ass towards the alter, or because they recognize me, and the shouts of my stage name just feel like chains, reminders of what I embraced to get to this point, a character, an image, an idea become real, but for what really, and now my girl’s made eye contact with me, charging towards her like a goddamned rhino, and I see surprise and terror in her eyes, and I should be feeling like a piece of shit, ruining her big day, and I should be more in control of myself, but all I feel is years of repression flowing through the broken dam, all that time spent convincing myself it was worth leaving her for this, and now, really, there’s no human here anymore, not even a rock star, just a rocket of bitter regret who can only see some asshole about to put a ring on his girl’s finger, and for some reason, it’s not him I hate, but her for accepting it, for saying yes, for moving on, and in the next second, I do something so unbelievable, that I’d be haunted by it for weeks afterwards on newspaper and magazine covers, and there it is.
My fist hits her face, not a girl hit, but a full on swing, and I’m sickened by the fact that it feels good, it feels like a release, but the regret comes hard and painful an instant later, and having done this, jumped off the ledge, left decency behind, I feel so horrible inside that the ten or twenty, or christ it feels like thirty, guys who attack me and start viciously beating me don’t even compare to the sense of throbbing disgust within me, and so I just lay there, submit to it, and, taking one last chance to do the only thing it seems I know how to do anymore, start sobbing just to up the ante on this whole nightmarish spectacle.