As I made my way out of the Kohl Center, swallowing a mouthful of coppery spit courtesy of a split lip — thanks for that Arthur, you goddamn pretty boy — the only thing on my mind was an old idiom: never meet your heroes. Of course, I'd never paid it much mind before; I always figured it was cynical boomer speak for 'I have shitty taste in role models'. Yet, here I was, staring into that very same abyss. America loved Bing Crosby and Bing loved them right back. So much so that he left them with his ultimate gift: the ol' 'bar of soap in a sock' technique for domestic abuse. Kanye West loved Jay-Z; Jay trapped Ye in a toxic co-dependent relationship where Ye only mattered when he was useful to Jay. I loved Cadryn Tiberius, and in the end, he turned out be like so many men before him: so utterly disappointing.

I didn't bother staying backstage for the rest of the show. I only lingered in the locker room long enough to change back into my street clothes and grab my bag before slinking out the back door into the cool, Wisconsin night, pausing only to fish my lighter and cigarettes out of my bag and light one. I would've been shivering if my face weren't burning.

I've never considered myself much of a smoker, but sometimes it just felt right. And facing a long, cold walk to my car following that shitshow? I don't know if there were ever a better time.

I kept my head down as I made my way through the parking lot, praying under my breath that no one would recognize me. My lungs stinged and I ached down to the pit of my stomach; the last thing I'd want is to put on a fake smile and hold a conversation with a reporter or worse, a fan. I took a deep breath as I made it to the white Honda Civic Ally lent me for the weekend and fumbled through my bag for the keys and unlocked the car.

I tossed my bag onto the passenger's seat and settled down inside, pulling the driver's side door shut behind me before pounding on the steering wheel, screaming obscenities. For a second, I forgot that I was technically a public figure. For a second, I felt like a real human being.

A second later, I calmed down, a wave of self-conscious embarrassment washing over me as I jammed the key into the ignition and started the engine. The opening strains of some CHVRCHES CD — the only album Alison-Marie listened to it seemed — began to play. I reached to turn it off, but changed my mind mid-motion and sunk into the seat. Under Lauren Mayberry's vocals and the upbeat synths, I could make out my phone's generic preset ringtone. Sighing, I reached into the bag and pulled it out, glaring at the caller ID: Ally-Mary.

"Fuck me," I muttered before swiping to answer the call, not bothering to turn down the stereo.

"Yep?" I chirp, putting on my best 'trying too hard to sound chipper' voice.