Page 1 of If Only In Our Dreams

You know you’re fucked up when the best thing to happen to you in years is falling asleep while leaning on a stranger’s shoulder. I know what you’re probably thinking, “That’s fucking sad, bro”. And you would be right. Itissad.Pitiful,probably. Stupid? Maybe. Rude,absolutely.

I mean,who does that?

Just fucking commandeers another dude’s bicep?

Me, motherfucker, that’s who.

In my defense, it was averynice bicep.

And we were on a long flight—economy—across the whole country.

And if you understood just howtiredI truly was, you’d get why the second that sandalwood and blossom scent hit I was motherfuckin’ done for, motherfucker.

For context, you have to understand that I’m the kind of guy who travels often. I’m always on planes. Always crossing time zones, oceans, and over countries so quickly they blur togetherin a liquid smear of farms, cities, and mountains. I’ve been to so many places that half the time I can’t tell which city is which. It’s only the fucking teleprompter that keeps me straight, and Nancy’s painful—but well-meaning—tongue-lashing in my dressing room to hype me up before each show.

Touring is brutal, I’ll be honest.

It’s go-go-go till you drop-drop-drop.

That’s all my life’s been for longer than I can remember. At least—until this last year. When the go-go-go stopped drop-drop-dropping. And instead, after the adrenaline had settled, and my sweat had dried, I found myself staring blankly at the nondescript wall of whatever hotel we’d booked that night. Or the floral—because they’re always fucking floral for some ungodly reason—comforters of B&Bs, or the sloped, claustrophobic ceiling of the tour bus.

Covered in glitter, with eyeliner old enough it should have its own driver’s license, I’d just kinda…die. Shut down.

Staring, staring, staring.

And that staringneverstopped.

Didn’t stop till the world woke up around me, and my eyes were grainy, but the stress remained. I could feel eyes on me, even when no one else was around. Could feel the weight of expectations, heavy on my shoulders.

For a while, I got used to pretending. Pretending that all was well, popping sleep pills when the grittiness became too much. Listening to the audiobooks from my favorite author, and hating the fact that even those couldn’t lull me into blissful slumber anymore.

I tried everything.

And when trying everything didn’t work, I kept pretending, until the moment I couldn’t anymore.

Till my body chose for me, the lights went out, and I woke up one day—lying flat on my back on the stage at one of myperformances, with Nancy—my assistant—fucking staring down at me like I was the goddamn antichrist.

“That’s fucking it, Robin,” she said like I’d shat in her cereal.

She was so far up my ass after that I hadn’t needed to get laid. Not that I could, considering the state my dick and body were in. Apparently, you needed proper blood flow to get hard—and sleep was…kinda fucking important?

Not that I’d tried to get laid, or evenwantedto. I mean—you ever try to drive when you’re operating on two to three days with no rest? The world’s a fuckingmess, you can’t see straight, your body’s full of pins and needles, and left isn’t left anymore.

Imagine trying tofucklike that.

No fucking thanks, man.

And that’s without adding in the extra drama of the paparazzi, the press, or the assholes that treated me like a trophy fuck to shine and display on their mantle. Robin “Trashmouth” Johnson, a motherfuckin’ ace in the hole.

I wasalwaysan ace in the hole.

Even when I wasn’t.

But that was better than being one of those famous dudes that simply sneezes and pisses people off, so it’s not like I could complain. Even though, after a certain point, I started to wonder if one day I’d stop being a real person at all. I’d wake up shiny and plastic like they thought I was, and not even realize I’d changed.

So yeah.

The bicep-stealing, sleep-falling incident was pretty monumental for me.

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