This one is for you

CHAPTER 2

Life sucks, seriously sucks. Whoever said "money makes the world go around" can just go to hell. If money did make the world go around, I wouldn't be seating in front of my piano, working on my fifth glass of scotch, and without a single note down on the music sheet. Yeah, I'm a songwriter, who used to be called "the most talented musician of the century" or whatever. And yeah, I'm rich, I live in a penthouse on Fifth Avenue. But what difference does it make? I haven't composes anything decent for the last two years, my manager's threatening to quit if I don't act soon, and the media are just all too happy to laugh at me across the front page of their stupid newspapers. Plus, that Kimberly or Stacy or Jenny or whatever girl keeps on calling me like I'm her freaking boyfriend! I don't even remember meeting her.

I mean all this bullshit and venting probably sounds cheap, and make me feel like a self-pitying ass, but I wasn't always like this. I used to be able to write a hit song in one afternoon. I used to be suave, and smooth. I never had a misstep. I was the critic's favorite, I have enough grammy's to line my entire wall, and my fans loved me more than they love their lovers. But, suddenly, I just don't have it in my anymore to write those hit songs like it was the most natural thing in the world. I don't know why I can't compose. I love music, it's my life and my passion. I've been trying to find it back in me. I've been walking around Manhattan, trying to find inspirations, but I usually just end up in some little bar, drinking my guts out. My manager, who's more like a brother to me, said I need a "muse", which is his most polite way to say get laid. But I don't think sex will do it for me. I need something more, but I just don't know what....

Screw it, I'm going to the bar, and then I might be able to drink some music out of me.