What Comes With It

Prologue

The tabloids have it all wrong. I'm not a maneater. But my career is.

It always starts the same. His people will call my people. Contact is established. Publicists consulted. Schedules compared, trumped, rearranged. There is no exchanging of phone numbers. No "wyd?" No Bumble, Hinge, or Tinder.

And there are certainly no booty calls.

My 20s were spent vacillating between world tours and months-long studio sessions, not pressed up against strangers in loud, dark bars. Anonymity. Sweaty bodies. Sticky floors. I realize it's weird to yearn for that but when you're me, you long for the normal. The clandestine. The mysterious. The slightly questionable.

Every single second of my life is planned two years out. That's one of the hardest parts for my companions to get on board with. Once they're in my life, their schedule is beholden to mine, or rather, their schedules are beholden to my schedulers. I don't even have a say.

That's the second thing they don't get. My career is bigger than me. It has taken on a life of its own and dragged me along with it. A consummate people pleaser, I can no longer tell where my work ends and where I begin. I can't slow down and I can't have the people attached to me slow me down either.

There are always jokes cautioning men to stay away from me or else they'll inspire my next song. But that's the only way I can carve out time to mourn my relationships. I don't get to vent with my girls or hole up in bed with a pint of ice cream. I learned at a young age that songwriting is not just an escape, it's the only way I can be left alone to process some really heavy shit.

That's the third thing that drives them away. I am an island. I am surrounded by people, handlers, body guards, lawyers, producers, and photographers. But I am always alone. My star shines too bright. Everyone loves the sun, but no one can get close to it. My net worth is too large to trust anyone. Nearly everyone in my life benefits directly from my success, but would they still like me if that weren't the case? It's a crippling reality that clouds my every interaction and every relationship, if you can call them that.

What they don't get is how hard I work to dull my shine and everything that comes with it. How I wish I could protect my small circle from the harsh realities of the 24-hour news cycle and bloodthirsty tabloids. How much I would love to not pay people to do my grocery shopping, cooking, and driving. I recently found myself fantasizing about cleaning my own cats' litter boxes. I guess when you get this successful, you start romanticizing the little, albeit kinda gross, things.

And so, I stay busy. I write song after song. Iadd tour dates. I charm entire countries. And then each night, I do an impossibly long skincare routine, pop an Ambien, and crawl into bed. Alone.