| ...joey... by destiny Did you ever have the feeling that people are just plain out to getcha? That's just how I fucking feel. I can't stand my own skin half the time, or the fact I'm living in a fucking fish bowl, or the fact I'm considered numerous things that I'm not. I'm only 24, goddammit. I'm not supposed to feel like this. I stare out the window of my house because there's nothing else to do. I don't sing leads, so JC and Justin are somewhere doing that. I don't own businesses like Lance, and I don't have a flair for clothing like Chris. I'm just, hell, I dunno. I'm just Joey. I'm me. And it's not good enough. If I hear one more time how big of a slut I am, or how fat I am, or how much of a nothing I am to N Sync, I swear to fucking God, I'll slit my wrists. I can't take it. I may be Italian and big, but I am not that strong. If one more person stares past me while asking me to fetch Justin or JC for them, I'll scream. I'll grab them around their skinny little neck and shake the life from them. I'm just not that strong. What the hell is wrong with me? Why is it when I search the internet, my pages are like 10 compared to Justin's 310. Is it his boyish looks? Should I shave my face? What? What do I need to do? Why the fuck do I care? If one more girl accuses me of fathering her kid, I'm gonna break. I want to be a daddy someday, truly. It's in my blood, blood that bleeds red just like theirs. But no one cares. Not one of them. No one cares as long as I'm the cash cow, creating money and holding on by my teeth for a fame I don't want. You heard me. Take it back. I don't care if I'm in N Sync. Truth be told, I don't think they care much either. Well, maybe they do. I went to the Superbowl, and we happened to go to the Maxim party too. I hated it all, the beautiful girls, the endless booze, the fucking way people came up to me with squinted eyes asking me which boy band I was with. What does that mean? I guess I'm economically viable to them, maybe. Maybe they could go on as a four piece, or get some other Italian to replace me, one that's not like me, one that's not the slut, the fat one, the fucking nobody. I surf the computer somedays, when boredom threatens my sanity and my body wants to shut off. I find the occasional site that cheers me, fans who stick up for me and I crumble, just like a fucking baby, and want to please them, hang on just for them. My nephew comes up to me at times, smiling and bouncing into my arms, and I know he would miss me, Unkie Joey. That's all I am to him. He could give a shit less how many albums I've sold, or the lack of singing. Sometimes, when I'm in the dressing room before a show, I listen to JC warm up, or Justin chat on the cell phone, or Lance giggle at something someone said, or Chris sketch a new outfit, and I wonder what the hell I'm doing. I'm raking in exactly one fifth of this N Sync empire, but I feel less than one fifth. When JC suggested I not sing a solo in I Thought She Knew, I nearly knocked him on his skinny ass. How dare he? Who died and gave him the lead reins? No one, that's my fucking point. I can't stand it anymore. When Lance asks me what's wrong, I want to tell him. He has that way about him, that eerie look he gets when he knows exactly what's on my mind. I just can't find the words. What am I supposed to say? "Gee Lance, I don't think I should be in this group anymore because I'm feeling neglected?" Fuck that, and fuck him and his damn politeness. I just want to hear him scream, just once, and not only because Kathy Griffen kissed him when he had a girlfriend. So what am I doing? Floating through life on a wing and a prayer, trying my hand at acting, hoping I can carve a niche in that. Maybe I'll be good enough. Hell, they cast me as Lance's best friend in his upcoming movie. Isn't that special? I get to play second fiddle to the blonde beauty, again. As if playing second to him for my real job isn't bad enough. Hell, it's a living, though. It pays for my parents new house, and the car I bought my sister, and the condo in Florida I got for my granny. So, I'll just sit here, and maybe I'll be noticed next tour. Maybe. |