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xmag.com : September 2002: What's Your Fucking Problem?

The second-biggest roofie

I'm sick of hearing about chicks who date broke musicians, love love love them, feed them, give 'em money, clean them up and show them off at parties like drunken tattooed unicorns, inevitably BITCHING at them later on about how "you're drunk/high/fired/going on tour/fucking your ex AGAIN???!" and guilt-trip them about they should settle down, grow up, and CHANGE.

Imagine, if you will, you've won the lottery. WOO-HOOOO!

Giant checks from the lottery office are pouring in every week. Suddenly, they stop...long before your total winnings have been doled out.

"Hey!" you cry on the phone to Joe Lottery Guy, "Where's the rest of my dough?" The voice on the other end is terse and hurt-sounding.

"Oh, I'M sorry. You LIKE all the money you're getting? Well, one wouldn't THINK so, since you've never ONCE THANKED ME FOR IT."

You were probably too busy ENJOYING your money and HAVING FUN to think about thanking the guy sending it to you. "FORGET ABOUT IT," you stammer, "WHATEVER, I UNDERSTAND," [click]

So you want your lead guitar player boyfriend to stop spending your money, lying and cheating and want him to, essentially, change?

Well, "lycanthropy" is a myth among white people. It's a sacred skill, called "shape-shifting" among Lakota Sioux and a few other native American cultures, I think, but your boyfriend sounds less like a werewolf and more like your garden-variety, underfed, overstoned, white Oregonian Band Dude. Usually, what you see is what you get with O.B.D.s. He won't change. Let's look at you.

You're a groupie. You fancy yourself a muse, but in reality, you're just a girl with an apartment and a job who likes to fuck guys in bands. You feel compelled to pay for things so these guys will like hanging around with you because, well, they GET stuff. Low self-esteem begs to be exploited.
A lot of my male musician friends are uncomfortable with all of your
generosity at first...but the van DOES need new tires, and you INSISTED...

O.B.D.s aren't bad people, but they're usually only good for a hot stab in the van or making out once in a while. I repeat...they won't change, nor should they. They're perfectly happy being who they are, and for cripe's sakes...you're paying them to be just that. If you're the one who's unhappy...duhhhhh.

And when you say "change," WHAT exactly do you mean? Change into what? What did you want in the first place? Well guess what...I'll bet THAT GUY, the nice, responsible guy you want your current thing to magically morph into...tried to talk to you at the bar you met Junior Rockstar at...and I'll bet you totally dissed him. You might have even cackled, "whatta fag!" to your girlfriends. THAT GUY prob'ly walked away while you were meowing for the oh-so-cute 150-pound yoke of broke bullshit you're carrying around right now.

Maybe you won't dump him because you're afraid he'll get famous without you. You like the idea of being a little helper on his ride to the top, where one day, maybe, he will pull you onstage during his acceptance speech at the MTV Music Awards and tell the world that YOU were the only one who really stuck by him. YOU were the ONE who made it all happen. Then, as he hands you the shiny spaceman statue, he kneels and begs you to marry him while the camera sweeps around the packed-and-cheering auditorium to catch Fred Durst wiping a tear away while he mouths the words, "Man. That was so fucking beautiful...."

If you think that's amusing, good. Get hip and move along to a person who suits you better. If you don't get at all what I'm saying, you're prob'ly gonna keep cart-wheeling into dead-end relationships until you're one of those sagging hags plopping along behind your swollen 49-year-old boyfriend, carrying his guitar stand into his piss-stink happy-hour gig where you blend into the background smoke and bad whiteguy blues. While you quietly chew holes inside your cheeks....you know you coulda been somebody special's somebody.

Rock on with your bad self.







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