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DATING A “ROCK STAR”

Dating a rockstar is every little slut's dream, and because I went to Disneyland when I was eight, I truly believe that dreams really do come true. I knew one day, whenever my tits decided to grow in, my rockstar beau and I would skinny dip together in a gold plated pool, do obscene amounts of free blow and fuck within inches of our respective lives. Ah, the imagination of children. Fast forward to my 21st year, post-napster America. I'm working as a music writer, guzzling sparks at a record label holiday party. And there he is. He hops off the stage, all 6 feet 5 of him, places his weird fur pelt thing on my shoulders and tells me I'm his queen. He's no McJagger, maybe not even Jim Croce, but I like his band and he likes me. Two malt liquor energy drinks later and we're publicly making out, exchanging numbers and he's promising to call me tomorrow. A couple weeks go by, he's been at my place for three days and I think to myself, "Things must be going really well." Sure, it's not exactly what I pictured, there's no excessive consumption of free drugs, unless you count some weed while watching HellBoy 2. And the romps in gilded oasis count is still at zero. Come to think of it, I have never even been to his house, only his "studio," where some things my dad wouldn't approve of went down in a sleeping bag.

The only part of the stereotype that’s holding up is the perpetual self-involved yammering and the legions of girls too cute for him offering to suck on his balls because he made the cover of a nationally circulated music magazine. I briefly consider the state of the music industry, the economy, and his shoes (they have holes in them) and a strange suspicion washes over me. "Are you homeless?" I didn’t have to wait for his response to know that the answer was yes. He tried to explain that he slept in his studio, so he wasn’t homeless, so to speak, but I knew for a fact that, that place didn’t have a shower and at almost 30-years-old the words bed and sleeping bag were being used interchangeably. You know who else rests their heads in sleeping bags? Bums. I didn’t know how to feel. Guilt, on the one hand for my continued use of Limewire, disgust when I briefly considered how many days his gonads went between meetings with Mr. Soap, and a little bit weird because I knew I wasn’t done sleeping with him yet. That night, before sending him on his way so that I could privately lament the death of the music industry, I convinced him the shower was the best place for us to do it.

A couple of weeks later, he disappeared for a few days. My immediate assumption was that his phone service had been shut off, but that theory went out the window when I ran into him out, with a girl who wasn’t me. When he spotted me, he looked curiously nonchalant for someone who had just been busted. He sauntered up and asked me why I looked so upset. Apparently I should have known the word "girlfriend" was roughly as flexible a term as "bed" in the world of indigent rock stars. I just stood there blankly, too confused to object, as it dawned on me that my dream of dating a rock star had somehow ended with me getting dumped by a bum. That never happens at Disneyland.

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