Time And Time Again

Prologue

Life in Hollywood is wonderful. There's nothing like waking up on a cool mattress in your modern luxury bedroom. You roll out of bed and slide your feet into a pair of white, fluffy slippers embroidered with your initials in gold silk thread, tighten the tie on the matching plush bathrobe. You open the curtains and catch a glimpse of the LA skyline through your floor-to-ceiling picture window as you make your way to the kitchen to brew a cup of espresso. Fix yourself a bowl of cereal. Sit down in a cushioned chair at your modern marble-topped table for breakfast. Ah, yes, you're living the dream. Fantastic.
You have everything. You know you have everything. A crystal chandelier, a wardrobe full of thousands of dollars in designer clothing, plenty of fame and fortune, good looks, and a Grammy nomination. You're a self made star at such a young age. People want to be you. Or they want to be with you. Maybe both.
So what's wrong?
Is it not enough?
Is it that somehow, you're not satisfied with all of this fame and money?
Maybe it's stress. Maybe it's loneliness.
Maybe it's the fact that you're nowhere near as famous as you were two years ago, and you're a narcissist who thrives on the approval of others? Who can't handle the fact that his last three albums had tanked? Probably the last one, but it's not like you'd ever admit it.
You swallow the last of your coffee, grimacing at the bitter aftertaste, and place your dirty dishes on the counter next to the sink.
All you can think about how much you want to win that award. Maybe it'll bring you back into the spotlight. You’re willing to do anything to be back in it’s warmth.
It hurts, not being the center of attention anymore. You used to be a star; Constantly mobbed with groups of people in the streets and at parties alike. You recall just recently attending Adam Lambert's Halloween party. A chaotic event, with loud karaoke and celebrities dressed up as other celebrities— Yes, the theme had been celebrities and although you were, indeed, a celebrity, nobody had dressed as you. You'd seen a few Danny Devitos, and Marilyn Monroes. There were plenty of Taylor Swifts, someone dressed as The Goblin King; You could've sworn you'd seen a man dressed as Ariana Grande too.
And even more shocking was the fact that barely anyone had stopped to talk to you, aside from a young woman who was looking for her friend. And after you’d explained to her, that no, you have not seen a middle aged woman dressed as Freddie Mercury in the music video for I Want To Break Free, she lost interest and continued to ask around. And you're just there alone in the middle of a party with no friends or socialization and you feel absolutely terrible. So you just leave and climb into bed and think about your miserable, perfect, goddamn life.
And you think about your miserable, perfect, goddamn life every day, before you go to bed and before you wake up. It lingers in the back of your mind when you’re trying to write you songs, and when you’re on the phone with your manager who’s so desperately trying to help you out. Sometimes a few gin and tonics can make it go away for a little while, but as soon as you’re sober again it’s back, taking up residence in your head along with the splitting headache. You’re drinking your feelings. Damn it. Are you an alcoholic? Are you becoming an alcoholic? Can you even save your career at this point, considering the fact that you’re now just some rich middle aged man that nobody cares about anymore because you’ve lost your spark and you can’t write songs anymore and everything sucks? Probably not.
Your name is Chuck Letterman and you're a burnout at 33.