Sometimes you feel like a whore, and sometimes you feel like a god. You suppose that means that you’re both, or you’re neither, or you’re one and you wish you were the other. If the last one is true, then you’re probably not a god, because who would really want to be a whore?

You don’t really think that you’re selling yourself, or that the lyrics you write so lovingly by hand, in your notebooks and on disks you store in a small box, protected by soft cushioning and with your life, if someone tried to destroy them, are fake. You don’t think it until someone tells you that they are.

It’s always felt real to you, because it’s always been your life. You went from Mickey Mouse Club to being a fucking pop star, and yes, you were always pretty and shiny and happy, but that’s just who you are. You’re happy, because you’re loved and in love and successful, with friends who honestly care about you, and you were born pretty.

You’re a fucking pop star, and you’re okay with it. Because all your friends are pop stars. Because you write songs that make people happy. Because you finally have the power to inject a little flavor into the pop. You’re a pop star, but that’s just who you are. You’ll never be Trent Reznor, and Britney will never be Tori Amos, but you’re okay with that.

That wouldn’t make you happy. You’re happy the way you are.

Its only when you read the reviews, when people call you and the best, smartest friends you’ve ever had puppets, when people say that the music you pour your heart into is empty, meaningless crap, that you feel like maybe its not worth it. Maybe it wasn’t worth it, escaping Lou and TransCon, fighting to make music that you’re proud of, fighting to have control, if people only say the same things they did when you were being controlled. Maybe it’s not worth it, being pretty and happy, if people only think that it’s an act.

Sometimes you think about scarring your pretty face, so that you can test it. So that you can see if the fans will still love you. So that you can see if that will make people stop thinking that you’re fake, if the pain that you don’t feel is etched across your skin.

And then you call Britney, and she reminds you that your hair is freakish, and your nose is funny, and you’re not really all that pretty, sweetie, and tells you about the song that she’s writing, and she sings it to you. Her voice is strong and proud and happy, and you think it sounds like nothing you’ve ever heard before.

THE END

For Dale.