Too Good To Be True

Too Good To Be True
Neo is having a bad night. After an unsatisfying one-night-stand, his hot neighbor decides to have loud sex – with someone else.
Pardon the way that I stare There’s nothing else to compare The sight of you leaves me weak There are no words left to speak But if you feel like I feel Please let me know that it’s real You’re just too good to be true Can’t take my eyes off you Frankie Valli, “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You” *** I fucking hate red carpet events, for crying out loud. But “as a newcomer artist, you have to grab everything that gets thrown your way” – to quote my publicist, manager, and A&R guy. It’s not even the event itself – an award show it was tonight – but the after show parties that bore the living shit out of me. But, again, the “newcomer artist” argument… And so here I am, shaking hands, watching the clock, and tapping my foot to some random tune blaring from the speakers while downing one celebratory drink after the other after my first German award show commercial break performance. It was good and fun and shit, I was good, and I know my family will be proud of me when the show airs tomorrow evening, but right now, I’d really rather go home than hang around this fake bunch of idiots any longer. I’m not even sorry for calling them that. But let’s face it: This isn’t the Grammys, and no serious artist hangs around for more than one beer, if at all. Except for me, of course, because my PR team wanted me to meet some important people – which I get, but still sucks, mostly because said people have gone home two hours ago as well. All that’s left now is getting wasted on free booze. I sigh. I miss my best bud Colin. If he hadn’t fucked up his job as a bassist in my band by fucking my PR agent’s boyfriend, he’d be here now, or we’d be somewhere else together. Instead, I’m here alone, watching the crowd. What I see? Everything central and peripheral to the German celebrity scene. It’s not even about music or film or charity – it’s everything thrown together. Fucking pointless. It’s everything I did not get into music for. I just wanted to play my guitar, and maybe get enough money for it to buy food… and more guitars. And pay rent. What I got was that, indeed – and this. Now I have to watch some too-skinny daily soap actress bitch dance on a table, knowing very well she’s off her face and will be puking her hundred-Euro dinner down the toilet in an hour, along with her soul. Ka-ching. I roll my eyes and turn away, only to see a semi-successful band of 16-year-old Justin Bieber copies drinking vodka straight out of the bottle. Jesus fucking Christ. Let me tell you: When they don’t sell records, it’s a nightmare. When they sell lots of records, it’s a whole other nightmare. To my right, I hear Daniel crapping on about some…

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