The J.D. DiPalma Collection

How To Be Mediocre

1

Meet Doug, The Loser

So I head down to the basement as I’ve done God knows how many times before. I duck under the low hanging part of the ceiling, the one disadvantage to being six-foot-two. I flick the amp on and wait for it to warm up. I walk over to the guitar rack, consisting of five guitars I overpaid for and treat like crap. I’ve got three electrics and two acoustics. An Epiphone Les Paul, a Mexican Fender Strat, an Ibanez hollow body, a Martin DRS1, and a Guild acoustic from ‘75 that was a gift from an ex-fiancee’s mom; the deal was I keep the guitar, she keeps the big T.V. I know the Epiphone needs to be re-strung so I break out a pack of Ernie Ball 12-gauge electric strings. I love a full sound over a thin one. Typical punk rock. I imagine this is how hunters feel cleaning their guns as they need to every so often, just getting in the mindset of what to expect when they get out there. I start taking the old strings off and putting the new ones on. I tighten the top three strings, turning the pegs away from me, and tighten the bottom three towards me. The tuner’s battery is low so I go over to the piano to tune. The only bummer is I have to run upstairs and turn the lights on. The only way to turn the piano on is to flip the switch; God only knows how many other people have those kinds of outlets in their place. I hit E2, A2, D3, G3, B4 and E4 all to the sounds of the dehumidifier in the background. I plug in and de-tune the top E string to drop D. 

My pad and paper are right where I left it the day before, and the ideas start flowing. Time to write a hit song that most likely will go nowhere, and  I will be the only one who hears it. I’m good—but not quite up to par with what’s marketable. I’m not where I need to be with my social media presence so they’re going another way—a feeling I know every average-joe musician can relate to. I just want one good show, one good EP, and one good swoop of recognition for something I’ve worked hard for and won’t see the recognition.

This process has gone on every other day from the time I was 11 until now at 26 years old. I know I have to grow up—and I have, to a certain extent. The fiancee’ and I didn’t work for many reasons. I was always trying to be creative and she just couldn’t see why I try so hard for something that’ll never love me back. She gave me all the love I could want, but it wasn’t the love I wanted. I wanted attention and I see that now. I don’t regret ending things with her, God knows she spent all her time and effort on material things, too. Hers were shoes, booze, and dudes with washboard stomachs; apparently, dad bods are only cool if you’re a dad. 

I have a full-time job at a school for disabled children as a teaching assistant, and I’m almost done with my degree in early childhood education. So I’m well aware that being a rockstar is well in the past, but fuck, it would be so cool. The girls, the house, the money—who knows what I could have been if I had gotten lucky and played that show that one time, or met with that agent who was a little skeevy. All the things you hear about having to sacrifice everything about yourself and your morals for the entertainment business seem to be all too true. There doesn’t seem like a whole lot of room for real art unless you’re a trendsetter, and I know damn skippy I’m not one. 

I love every type of music you can throw at me. Punk, Rock, Alternative, Jazz, Hip-Hop, Country, R&B, Soul, Blues, on and on it goes. There’s no genre I dislike, but certain artists I can do without; no shit-talking here. Every song is someone’s art and a pure expression of what they may be going through or what they need to say, even if it is about drugs, ass or their pickup truck. I’m no different. I’ve written about girls, anti-government protest, medical conditions, all while silently ripping off the Beatles like everyone else.

I finish the session, if you can call it that, and walk upstairs to be greeted by a wet-nosed creature by the name of Bruce, the family dog. He’s a standard poodle who thinks the world of me and my crumbs. He follows me into the kitchen where Mom has made dinner. Living with your parents at this age really isn’t that bad, but you can’t help but feel a tiny bit of shame when all your buddies went away to school and you’re still asking her the same question for fifteen years: How’d that sound, Mom? 

Sounded good, hon! She’s always been the support system I need. She lets me do what I love while making sure I don’t fall behind and end up a loser. I’ve come pretty close a few times, but she knows when I go too far. Spending a month’s paycheck on a new amplifier is all well and fun while living under Mom’s roof, but she made it clear each time with her usual jingle: Doug, you know you can’t be spending money like that when you’re on your own. There are days when I think Freud would tie me to a couch and make me ramble until I’m blue in the mouth. 

She plops down the usual Wednesday dinner: spaghetti bolognese with garlic bread. We chat about our respective days while Bruce damn near plops his head in my lap. Say what you want about the little scrounger, but his sense of timing is better than most rhythm guitar players. As I finish rattling on about the latest Blink 182 record, because Matt Skiba is a legend (piss off if you think otherwise) Dad pops in from a long day at work. You want to talk about honor and conviction, talk to him for ten minutes and be prepared to be humbled. Dad was a drummer in a wedding band back in the day and has always been my coach and critic. The words that riff sucks more than a taj massage parlor, will echo in my brain forever. Nobody gets anywhere without responding to criticism. Say what you will about music critics or people on any social media, but to me, the best work comes from the knee jerk reaction of fuck you, I’ll prove you wrong. 

Dad always seems to know what I’m up to musically. He knows all my really great days through to my taj massage days. I feel like artists can sense when you lie through your teeth about how things are going. Being full of shit is a given when dealing with people like me. You have to play the game of I’m the next best thing, and after a while, it's incredibly tiresome. I’ve quite had it, to be honest, hence why I’m shutting down operations on being the next KISS, Ramones, Toby Keith, Zach de LaRocha, or whatever phase I’m into that week. Putting on a happy face while internally screaming takes a toll on you.

Sorry, hon, it was all hands today. Four hours overtime, though, so progress. The fact that the man can work four hours overtime doing engineering at a hospital and I can’t even man up to going in on a holiday to help when grading falls behind says volumes about the differences in our work ethics. Maybe it's because he has a wife, house and a kid at home to feed, and had it all by the time he was my age, but it's things like this that snap me back to reality. There is no real substitution for hard work and it took me a while to learn that.

Mom gives him a big hug while he gives her a pinch on her backside, as I throw up in my mouth a little and die on the inside. I ignore it and ask him about his day. Had to fix the AC in the ER and co-ordinate where the cement truck will go tomorrow to fix the sidewalk, so a pretty standard day. How about you, big man? he asks, almost as though I’m still seven years old to him. Then again my mentality isn’t that far off. Just went to work, came home and played a little while, I reply, rotating my fork full of spaghetti into a spoon like I saw my grandfather do once. 

How’d work go? Anything on an open position? 

Dad I still got a semester left to go. I sort of have to be certified to be a teacher to get a job as one. 

You have to market yourself now while you’re a possibility. What’s the point in putting in all that effort if you’re not going to make them recognize it when the time comes? I truly hate it when he’s right, which is often.

I finish up dinner, do some studying and then lie down in bed. I start jotting down some lyric ideas on the notes app on my phone when Dad pops in. 

Hey, you awake, bud? 

Yeah, what’s up?

He turns my light on and sits on the edge of my bed. All that’s missing is a glass of chocolate milk and footy-pajamas and we’ve got my birds and bees talk all over again. Spoiler alert, both experiences have an equal amount of tears.

So I was thinking about when you get a job and everything. I know this is going to sound harsh but I’d like you to move out when you save enough for rent on an apartment and make it on your own. 

I couldn’t help but drop my jaw. You’re kicking me out? He looks at me as though I wasn’t listening at all. 

You heard what I said. When you get a job and start making real money. 

Dad what about all my equipment? I can’t take all that to an apartment. 

He takes a deep breath and states the words I was hoping would never come. Well you can keep a lot of it here still but maybe you can sell some of it and— I don’t even hear the rest because it's not an option. I say without thinking about it, What the fuck? No way—I use all of that stuff. 

Tell me one time in the past three years when you used that sound system at a live show Tell me when you used that recording software, or even when the last live show you played even was. 

I know the answer of course; five years ago at a block party that went down like a Led Zeppelin. Spoiler alert, that’s how they (Led Zepplin) got their name. Inspired by Keith Moon, no less. 

Why are you doing this to me? He says as calmly as he can while clenching a frustrated fist. 

It’s time to grow up. You have tried this for long enough. Obviously, music is as important to you as it is to me. I’m not saying get rid of the guitars or pianos, but the stuff you don’t use can go on to someone else who could get more use out of them since you’re not. I wouldn’t be doing my job as a father if I let you continue this same delusion of fame that I had. You’re a dreamer, but someone has to keep you tethered. 

The lump in my throat grows until my larynx peels. I am so upset. 

Think about it. Please. I’m sorry to do this but it's time. 

I know it's time, but it's not even on my terms. It's not even terms I agree with. I know in my heart of hearts that he is right, but as I said; sometimes you get that drive of Fuck you, I’ll show you I can do it. And my motivation changes from Alright, it's time to Here we go again.

2

A Day in the Life

So I wake up the next day feeling fresh as an open bag of manure. I’m pretty sure being hit with a shovel is far more pleasing than your support system giving up on you. But this is how it is. Even if I had made it, sometimes a record label will not have faith in the work you do. Sometimes you have to crack your fingers, look yourself in the mirror and say, It's go time. I’m pretty sure if all those action heroes can do it, I can too. When I get home, I’m going to figure out a kick-ass song and prove to everyone I’m not a loser. But until then, I’ve got work and then attend the school my parents have paid for like a blessing: who am I kidding here? It's not going to happen. 

That, quite literally, is how most of my mornings are. A hot cup of optimism to be spiked with a shot of steaming reality. Look at it sitting there like vegetable oil on top of water highlighting differences in density. Speaking of which, that’s what my preceptor is showing my class today. I take a shower and sift through the checklist in my head on what I have for today. I don’t know why I think about it in the shower since it feels like two different types of drowning. And of course, Bruce is there licking my leg to try and get some water. I get out and fill the bowl for the silly creature. Man, some days I wish I had it as easy as he does. All he has to remember is where to poop and which couch not to jump on after Mom cleans it. All greeted with a nice belly rub and treat. Lucky little twerp. 

I get dressed in my usual sweater vest and khakis. The kids usually get upset if I don’t wear my vest. It's become my thing, although, I did try the whole Angus Young getup with an inflatable SG to walk around with for Halloween. It was all fun and games until I bent to get a pencil and ripped a hole exposing my butt crack. I almost was seen, but I walked horizontally to the bathroom with a pin to close the back end of the shorts. I could have been forced to stay at least 500 feet away from the school if I had been caught.

My car isn’t too much a dumpster pile, but a 2004 Jeep Wrangler sure knows how to fall apart if it knows how to do anything at all. Girls sure do love a lift kit with the doors off in the summer, though. The commute to school is only about 20 minutes but I make it about 30, waiting in line for coffee. Molding America’s youth is tiring work, especially with the shit pay that TA’s get. I can’t wait for that pay bump when I graduate. 

Cut to my dumb ass spilling coffee all over me while putting a bit of sugar in. So now I look like I used to look in third grade with a water fountain, or if you want to get to the pathetic part, last summer at the Honolulu beach party for the staff. Although to be fair, in third grade it wasn’t either my fault or real.

I run into the bathroom to try and dry it off for a split second but it never seems to really help. Guess I’ll be walking around all day with my jacket in the front and tied around my waist like a kid on 90s Nickelodeon, huh?

It's scenarios like this that make me come back to Earth and send my delusion of fame and fortune down with it. I can’t even keep coffee together so how am I supposed to play the Garden with a stain on my pants? I ought to stamp Loser on a couple of different angles of my head so that I’m covered 360 degrees. But then I get in the car and a killer song comes on the radio and I fly full speed to work with all green lights and get a good parking spot so I feel all ten kinds of awesome. If you think the sudden ups and downs are a little concerning, I’ve noticed them as well. The truth is, the feeling of trying to make it in this world comes and goes this often. To be able to stay positive, and know that I have made a positive impact with music is all I want. Any observer of my situation can point out that I already make a contribution and impact by helping kids, and they’re right. I do. But the impact with music is something I just want a little notoriety for. If not the world, just a little respect on my scene. I live on Long Island in New York. It has God knows how many bars, but the venues you want to play are well known: The Last Exit Club, Point Ollie’s Bar and Grill, and even some of the coffee houses like Milk and Sugar. Those are the spots most bands play. The crowds are either really vocal or talk shit behind your back. So if you suck, you’ll know it, but in the worst ways. The kicker here is, I’ve been told I’m really good and should keep going. But the agonizing disappointment is just becoming too much to handle.  I love writing music and I don’t know if writing is something I can stop doing. Give me a little time and I can figure out where you want the song to go and how to make it appealing. But lately every time I get up on stage I realize, Fuck, I’m going to be here a while. Doing things for me is really not how making it works. To really make it, you have to love performing and singing things to which you had little-to-no contribution in their creation—unless you really are the best of the best with writing. I know I have talent, but I’m not good enough. It's like I want to perform, but have no interest in what a ghostwriter wants. It sure would be great if I could put as much knowledge and effort as I do with music and art into work, though. 

There is nothing quite like that morning wake up and hearing your first class roar with morning hormones while you open the door. God, I hate middle schoolers, but the kid I sit with is pretty awesome. Bobby has autism but is far smarter than me or anyone my age. He just has a hard time with his behavior and staying focused. So I sit next to him and practically point my finger on his paper and say focus. 

After about six-and-a-half hours of paper tapping, I run home and shower before going out to school, although I can’t help but notice something peculiar about my car. You see, I never drive a car with a tire that’s flat. It’s so bizarre. It’s like I grabbed the wrong tire for my car today—just threw it on by accident while leaving the house. 

Sarcasm has become the best coping mechanism for frustration. Beats throwing a fit and jumping up and down like a pissed-off student when we commandeer a vape pen. I have no fathomable understanding of why kids use these things. They don’t have enough problems in life to know about smoking in order to de-stress. I used to be a pack-a-day smoker until it killed my singing voice—like I’ll need it in the future, anyway. 

I zip through traffic and hop in the shower to be greeted by a particular poodle. I lay low for a little while, then grab some food. I hate cooking for myself. It makes me feel self-sufficient. No, I’m not that totally useless, just lazy. I grab some food from the nearest fast food joint while dripping their special sauce down onto my beard and driving with one hand. Nobody can drive and eat quite like me. I’ve got it down to a science. I plop the fries and drink in the cup holder while . . . wait, why am I telling you? Piss off, it's my secret. 

I whip into the parking lot then jolt into the building all the while crying on the inside at the stomach cramp I have from eating fried food too fast and then running. I’m quite the slob and dope, I’m well aware. 

So now you’ve seen what my normal day consists of. Pretty bland, isn’t it? Well, it was all pretty bland until this happens. 

I turned a corner and out of nowhere I felt something nail me in the back of my head and I crash to the ground. Oh my God, I’m so sorry! a total babe yells as she jumps down the steps two at a time. No worries. I’m okay, I say while pushing my sweatshirt to my head to stop the bleeding. She holds the sweatshirt for me while I rest on the wall and says Did it hurt? 

Do any of you ever have an inner monologue? Of course not; you’re normal people. My inner monologue is using the Carlin 7 dirty words in various sentences that could scare away anyone, but I have to play it cool, you know?

A little bit, but it shouldn’t be too bad. Are you okay? 

Yeah, I was just . . . you’re going to laugh at me, she says thinking twice about it. 

Try me. 

Well the new Slipknot just came out and I’ve been air drumming the blast beats all day. So it just slipped out of my hand and . . .  

Ladies and gentlemen if you think I stopped listening because of a severe head injury, you’re only partly right. The fact that this woman listens to Slipknot, all the while knowing what a blast beat is, ordinarily makes my heart pump enough blood to keep all systems going. However, in this case, it's rushing to my forehead to clot the wound. I didn’t even give a shit I was now late to a class that I’m only allowed two absences for. For a girl like this, whom destiny reaches out and chucks literature at you for, you stop and pay attention. 

I look at her in sweet sincerity and utter, To be fair, Weinberg does an outstanding job and nailed the last album. She looked at me as though I just uttered the secret phrase to her heart. This felt right. Keep in mind, I was engaged to be married, and I wasn’t this optimistic in the entirety of our relationship. It's almost like that book to the head just dropped a shitty four-year relationship out and dropped in the most euphoric 70 seconds of my life. 

You like other types of music? she inquires.

Oh yeah, I reply in an understatement. Primary thing I spend my income on. It's what I wake up in the morning for. She bites her lip in a way that makes her seem a bit turned on. Hell, I’m down. She then said, I was supposed to go to this concert on Friday but my friend didn’t buy me a ticket so I can’t go now. Anyone else spy an opening to flirt? Oh, I do. I say with as much cool as I can muster, So that means you’re free on Friday for dinner then? I’ve never seen anyone blush this hard. Nailed it.

3

The Rolodex of Girls

She finishes blushing, I get her number, and then run off to class. Turns out her name is Angela. And I can’t remember anything about the class I was taking because all I can think about is how Angela made me feel like I had been seen for the first time in my life. Obviously, I’ve been noticed and observed my whole life, but she really made me feel seen. In the brief time we saw each other, we had an unspoken connection and both agreed that we’re into each other.

I bail out of class, get to my car, pull out of the parking lot and drive home. I start to have the usual bout of anxiety I usually have at night time. The kind you usually have laying in bed thinking the world is about to crash down all because you did something stupid years ago. There’s tea time in London, smoke breaks for health care workers, and anxiety time for me. Can’t help it, it's in my family history and it’ll only get passed on to the next in line.

I can’t help but think, What if this girl sees the real me? The real loser that lies just below the surface of the usual mediocrity I have? I honestly think this is why I perform and write music. I can’t feel my own happiness so I get on stage and act the fool to make people like me. Isn’t that pathetic? I know I’m not alone, other performers feel similar, but there are times where I can’t help but feel I’m alone; just this overwhelming feeling of the whole world shrinking down to the size of my silhouette and applying enough pressure to make me crack and spill. This girl and I exchanged maybe five sentences before I ran off to class, but what if in those five sentences she could see I’m full of shit? I’m a performer, therefore a liar. A lot of the things I say or do are just carbon copies and ideas I have seen before; I re-structured them and made them my own. Do you know how many times E—B—C#m—A chords have been used over with new words? Ask any musician, they’ll tell you. 

This cackle of nonsense is what goes on in my head at any given time. Something positive or negative can happen, I’ll still be rambling. But in all seriousness, my collective dating history is not New Year’s highlight reel of the progress I’ve made and great events that have taken place. It looks more like an in memoriam or old DVDs of hockey’s best fights. And that doesn’t just apply to women, but the riffs I’ve written, the script ideas I’ve jotted down, or the aspirational dreams that get anchored down by life and time. So let’s see the who’s who of Doug’s greatest hits, including cameos from one night stands and fuck buddies, you never know who’ll pop in—or out. 

So let’s start with the obvious, the ex-fiancee’. Catherine and I met online and if not for that we never would have met. She was working finishing up college and taking her final teaching exams, while here I was . . . not. For the lack of better wording, I was more or less a fish on an unlit barbecue; I was about to be burnt. I had all this stuff going with music deals I was so underprepared for. When we started going out I was about to sign a contract with a foreign record company. Her dad was a lawyer who said: Bullshit, let me read it. Thank Christ he did because I was about to sign a 360 deal—a deal that takes money from every aspect of revenue including live shows and merchandise, which is ordinarily where musicians make most of their money. I bowed out and was swimming in familiar waters again. She really took care of my dumb ass while I couldn’t have cared less about myself or what happened to me. I did tell her though I would be a stay-at-home husband if it came down to the idea of having children and forming a future. But the more she’d tell me about her school assignments, the more I became fascinated by it. I told her about writing music and said that if she ever needed help with an assignment, I’d help. Kind of like telling a lawyer that you’ve read Cat in the Hat and going Yeah, I can read all good like!

But the more I read up on her books and papers, the more I knew I should go into this myself. I got it so much easier than I got into music. It felt like it was written for me. I’m a firm believer that if something is coming naturally to you, you should dive deep with it. It could be the answer or droid you’re looking for. 

But I still had this pinging in the back of my mind about music. I wasn’t ready to give it up yet. I would go to school part-time and be writing constantly. I believed in myself even if nobody else did. But I was still getting my school work done and passing everything with top marks, so nobody could say shit to me. The more classroom time I did the more I realized that this was my niche, but I realized this wasn’t the atmosphere I wanted to come home to. I wanted to come home and be with a wife and enjoy playtime. Yes hanky-panky, but I wanted to travel and act like a kid when I didn’t have this looming sense of responsibility—to be selfish and not have to care about anyone else when I finished work. And when you have kids, you can’t be so selfish. So I dropped that bomb on her and the next day there was an engagement ring on my bedside table. I thought that I’d have been crying like a baby, but I sat there, exhaled and went back to sleep. 

I know it sounded shallow and hollow to not show more emotions, but what can you do when you know this is the right decision for two of you? You just have to accept that though you may love each other, it doesn’t mean that you’re right for each other. Heavy shit, right? Not all pussy and music jokes up in here.

Before Catherine and the two other lovely ladies you’ll meet—that’s right, two more—let’s talk about Winnie. Winnie is a lovely young lady who I met while cheating on my high school girlfriend. What a catch I am, huh? 

Winnie and I met in person, which is odd enough for this day and age. During my first attempt at college, at the time I went for nursing but dropped it because of catheters—well, yuck. That’s the joke version. I left because I was atrocious at the topic and I didn’t feel like wasting time on something I knew I couldn’t do. I digress: I was on academic probation with Winnie and we hit it off with a reference I made from a movie she saw. We exchanged numbers since the counselor advised us to—therefore he’s to blame. But when the flirting started I quickly advised her I had a girlfriend. However, that didn’t seem to stop her (or me) from exchanging dirty texts. And although this behavior was beyond revolting, I have to say I was having quite fun with a girlfriend and a dirty secret. The girlfriend and I ended without speaking of Winnie but  I’m sure she must have known. She was not a dumb girl and you can only say I’m sleeping over at my classmate’s house so many times while explaining that Winnie is a guy’s name, too. 

Not even a week after that relationship ended, I set up a proper date with Winnie. And I have to say after the facade dropped and we were two single people, it was an absolute mismatch. There was a true sense that we should just be friends—naked friends at best. However, she couldn’t see it. She really loved me and wanted to be my girlfriend. I realized I needed time to grow, to mature, and become a better person, but she was not having it. It got rather crazy the way she would retaliate against me. What started with pictures of her with other guys to make me jealous turned into trips to my job to see me. 

You have to be careful with what you set onto the world through your emotions or your genitals. I wish I hadn’t hurt her. I really do. I feel that in a way I could’ve loved her more than just as a friend, but the people we became when we were around each other was just not who we really were. I set out to get a jump on my attempt at a music career and she went into a five-year relationship and found the love of her life. A messy beginning turned out to be a great ending, for one of us, anyway. 

It's like life takes one turn and—fucking hell! Did you see that? That squirrel popped out of nowhere, man. I swear to God they are the ballsiest animals to run across the street. It's like that scene in Watership Down when that bunny wasn’t expecting anyone to pop out on the road and then . . . sorry! I have become distracted by the girls. Last time, I promise. Although, this is the one with the two girls. I have to tell this one in the car before I go in.

So I started working really hard when it came to honing my craft as a songwriter and performer. For five solid years, I was really killing it. Growing and maturing along the way. I stayed single for five years to make sure that when I met someone I was ready. And then there was this one show when I was knocking the crowd dead. I actually sold the place out. The first and last time it ever happened for me. No album or EP, either. All of it was word of mouth and the occasional fan posting my set on a social media platform. I was hanging backstage and someone actually asked me to sign a flyer. My first autograph! I couldn’t believe it. She was a real stunner too, so I was sure someone had sent her back as a joke, but it was real. She even asked me to dinner in this nervous way, as though I was almost unobtainable. She said Ummm, if it's not too much to ask, can I, like, I don’t know, ask you to dinner sometime or like . . . no, it's so stupid. I’m sorry. I was stunned saying, Can you? Please, this never happens to me. 

Let me tell you all something. Artists are people, too. They have families they have hopes and dreams, but they aren’t above anyone. We’re all the same in the way of hierarchy. No matter what anyone says, we’re all the same degree of scum, and I say that in the nicest and most sarcastic tone. 

Anyway, we exchanged numbers and Grace took me out. It was nice, very romantic and very quaint. But even sitting down getting to know her I could tell I was not ready for commitment. We walked to the car and she asked me out again; I told her, This is all very sweet and kind of you, but I have to tell you I’m not looking for anything serious. The best I can do right now is be casual with no expectations, but I doubt you’re interested in that. 

To my surprise, she said, Actually, I was thinking the same thing. So we would hang out whenever we had the time for each other. She had her own place so it was always there where we’d have nights in, nights out, or nights in the bedroom. Those were becoming far more common than anything else, however. Those nights in the bedroom became lunches in bed, then those lunches became I have 30 minutes before my next set. Want to get a quick one in? We both agreed that even having a casual commitment to each other was a little more than we could handle so we agreed to be friends with benefits. And we were great friends with each other in the meantime. I’d drive her to doctors’ appointments, she’d be there for me at shows when I was nervous, and we couldn’t believe how great it was going. Then, a monkey wrench was thrown in. 

A similar scenario happened with a girl named Alyssa. The difference was, she wanted something more serious with meaning. Though I was skeptical at first, we went out. And we fitted together like a puzzle. She was my other half for that time. She knew about Grace but was okay with it until we became monogamous. While on a date I