Locked and Loaded
by Alex S. Johnson
I am an insect. A worm. Something gross. Gratuitous, a phantom limb.
That is how you see me, right? But that perception is incorrect. You must come to terms with the fact that I exist, and my existence is not dependent on your acknowledgement of it. Mister Rock Star. Mister Spin Magazine. Mister Rolling Stone. Mister Self-Destruct/Burnout/Fallout, every misstep greedily devoured by the press and vomited out for public consumption. You stare down from rock and roll Valhalla, never wondering about the speck in your eye. A plank, really.
Even though I’ve been with you every step of the way. And have helped, at times profoundly.
Remember your first record deal? When everybody in the industry who counted said you’d lost an engine on the runway. Your shenanigans with gangsters, drawing attention to yourself on the most negative level. As if you…
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