All my life I’ve dreamed of making it. This is my sole passion and singular focus. Sure, fame and money would be nice, but that’s not why I’m working so hard. What I picture in my dreams is doing that one interview right after you “make it,” where you unload all the shitty stuff from your childhood onto the world and everyone has to care about it.
People love hearing about the single mom working two jobs in some unknown shit-hole town. Granted, that’s not my story. I’m an aspiring singer/skateboarder from the suburbs. No one cares about my problems. But once my band makes it, I’ll finally get that pure gratification of people nodding along like, “Yeah man, my dad was a dick too.”
Famous people complain all the time, but when I complain, people just roll their eyes like, “Dude, you should be grateful!” Pfft, grateful for what? I had to share a room with my little brother till I was 13! And okay, my dad was physically there, but he wasn’t emotionally there, ya know? I had to get all my emotional support from my mom. You have no idea the emotional burden that placed on me. Not like any of you care. But you will someday, when my band is opening for AFI.
Drake got to whine about way less on “Started From The Bottom.” At one point, he complains about traffic and his uncle asking him to bring his car back. Come on, 6 God! My uncle never even let me borrow his car.
I guess I’ll just have to hold it all in until People magazine sits me down and asks about the nitty-gritty. Like when my mom took night classes for accounting and I had to babysit instead of going out with my friends. Or when my dad was all like, “My house, my rules.” So I moved out the second I turned 18 and started the sickest band! Sure, Dad helps me pay rent, but do you even care how emasculating that is?! No. But you will.