Breakfast on the Shores of Seine At my first job my editor, Cynthia, loved to joke with me about how her greatest nightmare is to lose one of her writers to a rock star. I myself had a few friends that ended up leaving their career to be with a rock star. Truth to be told, and you’d know that, if you’re a girl, we all dream of a long-haired guy with a lot of tattoos, in leather pants, on a bike, who will write us songs and play on his acoustic guitar every night. And rock stars are exactly that. Only in our dreams they aren’t all about pussy, alcohol and drugs. Reality, when you’ve been around rock stars long enough, starts to seem vague. You’re drawn into a spiral of never-ending parties, that involve a lot of pussy, alcohol and drugs. The pussy are the poor girls who did not realize in time a rock star is not someone you can take to dinner at your mommy and daddy’s house and build a home with. They want to be with a rock star because they can brag that they found their dream-bad-boy,
"Day after day, fickle visions - messing with your head, fickle, vicious; Sleeping in your bed, messing with your head - fickle visions, fickle, vicious..."