Jake Brennan

Your band was dying in the studio in a haze of bad sex, worse drugs, and no rock and roll.

In an effort to destroy your humanity, you destroyed yourself as an artist, because humanity is at the core of all great art.

You were too smart not to finally realize this.

And when you did, you snapped too.

If humanity was indeed needed to survive, to, in some twisted, ironic way, to give birth to your greatest artistic endeavor yet, the Antichrist superstar, then fuck it.

Brian could stay.

And you'd get clean-ish, knock down the drug and alcohol intake and focus yourself and your band on the task at hand.

And you'd relegate Brian to the basement of your soul where he was comfortable and put into work whenever necessary.

After all, you had a job to do.

To make the most shocking mainstream rock album of all time and fist-fuck the American youth out of their catatonic conformist state.

Celebrity is its own drug.

When all the famous people in Hollywood want to get up close to your own personal freak show and experience what it's like to breathe the same air as you, it's intoxicating.

As intoxicating as the drugs you take and the drugs that you're on right now.

You're so high.

It's hard to remember what you even took.

It's hard to remember where you even are.

You're at a table in public and Billy Corgan is sitting at this table across from you.

He's either arguing with or coming on to Rick Rubin's beard.

Rick Rubin, the famous producer, he's at the table too.

You're in a restaurant or club or a bar and everywhere you look there are famous people but they're looking at you like you're the attraction.