It’s just the age-ol’ notion of novelty amongst a sea of mundanity. It’s not every day we welcome some out-of-towner into our fold. Nor is it every day that we welcome back an old acquaintance. An old acquaintance who once meant more to me than words can sum up, sure, I guess, whatever...but also represents just about everything that went wrong in my life.

It’s just a fluke. Like the first time.

It. Will. Fade.

And it’s not like I can really blame Mason for offering the guy a job. We do need the help. With the ever-growing crowds we draw on weekends, it’s a miracle we’ve gotten through these past few weeks relatively unscathed.

But as rational as all of this sounds in my head, it doesn’t change the fact that I feel like someone just happened to drop in and take a shit on what’s mine.

And not just any someone—Will. Fucking. No. Middle. Name. Foster.

I mean, really, who doesn’t give their kid a middle name? What is with that?

“MCALLISTER!” Shawn calls out from the hallway.

Time’s up, I think with a sigh.

“Sorry, love,” I rasp out, pulling away from...shiiiitttt. Cringing at my current next-level douchery, I quickly adjust the semi in my jeans as I break away from her. She pouts, and I just wink before stepping away. Even if she remembers this come morning, she knows the score. They all do. I make sure of it. Always. If they want to think and believe otherwise, then that’s on them.

Jumping back on stage, I take a long pull from the bottle of whiskey I keep stashed behind my drum set. Grabbing my sticks from the sleeve on my stool, I settle in for our third and final set of the night.

We always save our best for last—mostly hits from the 90’s grunge, nu-metal and alt-rock scene—but even I can admit I’m kind of getting sick of these so-called “best” being anything but ours.

Don’t get me wrong—there’s nothing wrong with covering music. Throwing your own spin on music is always a fun time, and it still takes a killer amount of talent. Discipline. It also doesn’t hurt knowing exactly how your audience will react.

But sometimes, I can’t help but crave...more.

Art is a lot like a parasite. An invasion of undeniable need to share your soul with the world. To try and make the world a little better than how you found it. It consumes you to the point of desperation. Begging you to just let it out; see me, hear me.

Even when said world has let you down too many times to count.

Making music is like that for us. Mason, Shawn, and me. It’s what ties us together.

This affliction.