guhmi ☆ district 2 ☆ cb

g u h m i

"Vocals aren't real Jobs, Mit,"

"Yeah, I know," I'd say with a smile accompaniment to the next starry-eyed fool that said that to me, as if I hadn't heard it a thousand times before. See, they all think they're telling me news that I haven't heard more times than that one song that always plays at 10:15 down at the pub near the town square. They all think they're original, and that's why I know I'm set on this job for as long as I want. Because as long as I know I'm better than the ones trying to bite my ankles, I know I'm fine.

To make it at pubs and clubs, to actually be a show-stopper for the public eye, they want some kind of sob story. Some kind of emotional attachment so that they have a reason to root for you. I don't have that, I don't need that I don't think. They all think I'm some dead-end youth, so you know what? If they want a sob story that's all I'm giving them.

That, and a long way to hell for every second of doubt held against to me like chains.

I sing on that stage for them all to see; they get to see me be flawless. And I get to see them doubt my lifeline, nitpicking at my performance because I'm not as talented as some forty year old who's been singing for this crowd for as long as I've had lungs. "I don't know Mitchell, there's a lot of great singers, it's a long way to the top."

"Yeah, I know," it's a long trip to hell too, so you better get started.

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