A mad scientist spliced David Bowie with Joan Jett and they got me.

I’m a world-famous rock and roll singer. I belt, I scream, I wail, I croon, I bawl, I curse, I praise, I make love and spew hate. Simon Cowell critcises every performance and I invariably give him a verbal smackdown, leaving the audience in stunned silence before it erupts into thunderous applause. Rolling Stone magazine praises my debut album as “high-energy” and “danceable,” “catchy” and “raw,” “the best album in ten years.” My shows sell out stadiums everywhere. Hong Kong, London, Paris, Washington DC, New York, Los Angeles, Honolulu. Ladies melt for me and throw their thongs, men tremble when I look at them and bend to my every beckon call. I am never without company when I want it, but they know to leave me alone when I want some quiet time.

But most of all, everyone loves me, everyone sees how amazing I am. And they think I’m a good dancer, even if I don’t. People are entertained by my shows, they sing along to all my songs, some of them even cry when I sing my cover of “Creep,” because they hear the anguish in my voice and they too don’t belong here. They dance and scream and whoop. I crowdsurf. I autograph CDs and pictures and cleavage.

It’s the life I dream of, but is it the life I want? When I get there, do I still feel empty inside? In a stadium packed with 10,000 people gathered to hear my voice, my music, do I still feel like I’m on an island, drifting out in the Antarctic ocean?

Or am I electrified by the power of reaching out to touch 10,000 lost souls just like mine? Am I vibrating with the expression and love? Am I exploding with energy and passion like I do today? Can it be real? Can it be mine? Can this hollow, shiny dream ever really come true?

What’s more, do I really want it to?

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