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I'm an author with lacking social skills now, but I remember my teenage years with accuracy. I did not spend too much time with homework, alcohol, or drugs. The occasional experimentation of all of them were inevitable, but overall I stayed in my basement, alone, trying to find ways to express myself without hurting anyone. A Fender Stratocaster, shitty Peavey amp, and a dorky Yamaha acoustic autographed by Matt Sorum kept me company when no one else would.
I miss those days sometimes, the sanctuary of solitude and half a dozen of my own songs I'd practice every day. It was like I finally mattered to someone, even if it was just my imagination. When I was at school, I was a ghost; when I was with my friends, I was scum. When I killed, I felt power, but it was a power that I only kept inside and no one would ever see. Writing these songs were my medicine in those years, bleeding the bits of my reality into things that other people would consider beautiful.
The biggest fan I ever had for my music was named Sarah Gartzke. She loved every song I played for her, and forced me to make a dub of Nailed after it was recorded. I have always been a correspondence junkie, and I sent it in the mail after the last time I saw her. Her letters were flattery, but inside my home and family incidents, there was limited support. My father would drive me to Madison for guitar lessons and allow me to smoke cigarettes as we went. He did not approve of my smoking, but not once did my father try to step in to stop me from making my own mistakes and being myself. When mom was around, I was never good enough. The first time she listened to my recording of Nailed, my expectations were too high again.
I don't know, I thought that she'd tell us that she remembered the song from somewhere, or asked where the drums were, tell me about the part I screwed up, ANYTHING! Instead, it was just another song on the radio. When my father asked her what she thought of the song, she wouldn't say a positive word about it. Daddy revealed to her that it was mine, and she pretended to like it.
You ever wanna know why I lose friends all the time it's because of shit like this. If you hate it and I know it, why fucking lie!? If she liked it, I would have been happy, and if she hated it, I would have just tried harder, but fuck- there are three major things that ruin friendships and bonds, money, sex, and lies. She lied to my fucking face, man, and this was my fucking world.
My world rotated again, became about stories again, "In A Way," a story about a precognitive teenage girl and her heroin addicted nurse mother.....okay, okay, my mom's a nurse....the point is, I spent my spare time writing in notebooks while my friends went on to be more social. I hid out online and talked to guys in other countries while my peers completed their homework and got decent grades....it's like I gave up on everything because I essentially surrendered to the inevitable unimportance of everyone I knew. My only source of confidence and ability to speak without fear came at those intervals of devastation, when the disappointment would lead me to another place and body. Without Tom around, though, it was hard to feel that way.
I was twenty one when I started to write "In a Way" again, working in a casino that taught me a thing or two about social skills. I was single, financially stable and morally corrupt, but it was okay. A girl approached me and asked if I was a model.
"Hell, no," I said sarcastically, "but if you're offering me a job, let's talk!"
"You're beautiful," she told me. I searched for motive. "I think I know you from somewhere. Didn't you used to play guitar?" Holy fuck, it was Sarah.
"Yeah, how do you know that?"
"I'm your biggest fan! Remember me?" she asked. At the moment, I was drawing a complete black, which sucks, because I usually have such a killer memory.
"Refresh my memory?" I pleaded kindly. She spoke, but I was at work, and when my radio goes off, it's the first thing I'm paying attention to. There was a million things I had to do. I happened to hear her say her name, though. "I have to go right now, Sarah, but I'll see you in a little while.
I got really busy with work, and no, I never saw her again. I blew off the one person I'd always prayed would praise me for my isolation and honesty, and in a clever twist of karma, my recording of Nailed was stolen from my home by that troll I almost married.
I don't create songs anymore, although the desire is scabbing in my brain daily. I want so badly to find someone to help me pull them from my head and make them something beautiful again.
In my failures, I sometimes fail to learn, but watching others fail is a great motivator in my lessons.
I learned from my experience promoting metal in the last two years, and here's some clever little somethings that I wish I'd known before:
~ Actions speak louder than words: Although the lyrics imply the hostility that I can relate to, they're just words to the people that sing it. Sometimes the most Satanic songs are written by Christians, and Christians are the biggest liars I know. Some heavy metal is great in my quest for balance, but a fabrication for attention by the creator. When I meet these people, my expectations become shattered.
~ Women rarely matter to musician unless sex is involved, and even then, time is limited. Since I don't sleep with em, it will be easy for me to disappear from Milwaukee. I'm stupid about some shit, but highly informed in some parts of psychology. There's the psychology of the musician, and of the psychopath, and there is no happy ending. Musicians cannot give the attention a psychopath desires, and a psychopath couldn't allow a musician his solitude. The few musicians that do respect me, respect me as a friend and author. Those that I've supported as a fan have treated me like another potential groupie. Being a female metalhead sucks.
~ I have YET to have a long lasting important friendship with a woman because I always seem to screw them up. When I met other metal chicks, they claim to be like me, having mostly guy friends & hating drama, but in the end, it's all the same. I'm always not good enough. I'm always the creature among humans. So be it.
I just wish that when people looked at me they didn't see me as a woman, but a creature in the shell of woman. That's what I am, anyway....that explains why I have the balls to blow off the only fan that ever recognized me so many years after a performance.
And lastly;
A psychopath rarely learns from her own mistakes. I'm trying to start, but it's fucking tricky. When people dump me, which they do frequently, they forget to fill out the exit paperwork to tell me where I went wrong.
~ Social Skills are the only way to puff the metal scene: The only people I've convinced to come to metal shows with me are people I brought, or invited to meet me. I've brought actors to Cannibal Corpse, and met other friends at FireWalk shows by maintaining a level of curiosity and honesty. However, I suck more and more everytime a musician farts in my face....and it's fucking hard to get past the stench.
I have no choice, dude. I'm an author with a lot of charm & charisma, and the overall precognition that I will be rejected by them all eventually....
Scarefest, I'll do my best.
(Elizadeth Hetherington is scheduled to appear in Lexington, Kentucky as early as Friday of this week.)
11:44 PM
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