In a world where everything seems so wrong, so imperfect, I don't know why I thought I would be special. Why I thought my life would escape the fucked-upness of the universe, I don't know. I figure I'm a pretty special guy, but even I should've known I'm not that special. I mean, she left me for crying out loud. I didn't think she'd ever leave, but she did, thereby reaffirming the fact that I'm not all that damn special.
It's been one of those weeks where everything seems just a little bit broken and I find myself staring into space. I've become a voyeur to myself, searching for the clues to figure out my own life. You know that feeling? Like you want to throw up, but you don't know where the sick feeling is coming from? Except, I think maybe I know. Or I'm figuring it out, little by little.
This whole thing - my life, my world, my job, this tour - is brutal. It tears me apart. It ruins relationships, friendships, promises… sanity. For a while, everything was fine. Everything was good, actually. I was happy. She was still with me, happy with me. We loved our lives and hated our jobs and smiled and frowned at the thought of having to intertwine the two. But together, we made it. We made it happen. We made it happily.
But then, she left. She left and then "Justin Timberlake and Cameron Diaz" was suddenly a part of history. She left and we stopped being candidates for the next Us Weekly breakup or marriage or whatever bullshit they tried to pin on us. She left and I stopped being happy. In fact, I was breaking. Broken. Torn. Wallowing in fucked-upness.
I can't lie and say it was sudden. It had been a long time coming. It was inevitable, really. We all break up. We all get tired. We all get to the point where we get sick of giving and the other one taking. "You gave an inch when I gave a mile." That's what she said. Was it true? That's anybody's guess. But it was true to her, which is the only thing that matters, since she's the one that left.
As far as I'm concerned, I gave a mile, too. The problem with that? I gave it to my other love. My career. I put everything into my music, my fans, while she put her all into us. Everyone told me I couldn't do both. I knew it. She knew it better. Like I said, this world I'm in ruins the things that matter most. Unintentionally, of course, but it's lethal nonetheless. It has no mercy on the heart. It demands Goodbyes at the most inconvenient moments. It turns your life into a zoo and transcends you from Famous Person into Caged Animal. An animal begging - no, screaming to be let loose. Its rumors stampede through your life, making your private conversations public and holding your relationships hostage. This world - my world - is the epitome of fucked-upness.
"You killed the part of me that cares." She said that, too. I didn't mean to, and I'm pretty sure she knows that. But then, who does? You know how you have days where everything annoys you? The days where you have to hit something in order to keep from hitting someone. The birds in the trees just refuse to shut. the. fuck. up. The traffic seems a little slower, the idiots at McDonald's messed up your coffee a little more than usual. All of your friends are cunts and you hate your enemies just a little more than you did the day before. Well, somewhere along the line, that became my perpetual state of mind and my guess is that it pushed her away. It killed the part of her that cared.
Do I wish she'd stayed around and helped me get past that? Yeah. But do I blame her for leaving? Not at all. It wasn't her job. It wasn't her place. No one has the answers that I expect everyone to know. I demanded her to know. She was older, she was supposed to be wiser, she was supposed to show me how to make it work. How to make this world - my life - unfucked-up. Because seriously, how does one do it all? How do you make Famous and Normal coincide? And if you can't, how do you keep from letting it ruin you anyway?
Because I swear that I try. I laugh and I crack a joke. I make it seem easy. Make everything seem easy. Make life seem easy and fame and relationships and success and smiling for rabid fans and keeping cool for the paparazzi, reminding myself that I dreamed of this, I asked for this, and I got more than I could ever complain about. Still, I have to constantly remind myself: Call your girlfriend. Tell her you're in love. But wait! First, you have a show to do. Make sure the fans have fun when you take that stage, and if you can't do that, at least make them smile. Make that record that'll make them want to hug you or fuck you or punch you in the face. Make them happy. No wait! Are you crazy? Make Cameron happy. Your love. Yes. Make her laugh. Make her dinner. Make her proud.
But then comes the inevitable. She calls me back, but it's time for bed and someone's on the other line. I have to remind myself to give a damn and still, I don't. I press mute because there's nothing I can say. I turn the phone off because I'm running out of minutes. Running out of time and space and sanity. So yes, she left, and now I regret the minutes I spent pushing her away for one more autograph, one more picture, one more hour of sleep. I forgot what was important. It was her, but I forgot to tell her. I was too busy drowning in fucked-upness.
Who am I to complain? I don't know. I'm me. It was my fault, sure. She gave up her world just to be inches closer to mine. She slowed down with the movies while I sped up with the music. And the movies. Trying to become a mogul or a machine or a mixture of the two, thinking I could do it all, not realizing I wasn't doing anything. Not anything for her, anyway.
Still, I bitch and moan when I don't get my way. Then again, I bitch and moan when I do. It makes it easier. It replaces the tears and lessens the pain. It lessens the pain only slightly, but lessens it nonetheless. It passes the time. I'm complaining to myself, so I no longer have to feel alone. The complaining, the bitching and moaning, it makes the traffic go a little faster, the birds a little quieter. It doesn't bring her back, but it keeps my mind off the fact that she's gone. Not only gone, but she left me, for crying out loud. I didn't think she'd ever leave, but she did, and now, I'm wallowing in fucked-upness as it softly kills the part of me that cares.
Completed
Ashley is the author of 8 other stories.
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