I groaned as I heard my alarm go off, and rolled over. I shoved it, and watched the cord pull out of the socket as the alarm clock dropped onto the ground. Silence.
A sharp rap at my door. I groaned again as my manager, Steve, stepped in and looked at me.
"Christina, it's time to get up. You have a photo shoot and press conference today!" Steve paused when I wouldn't get up, and he walked over to me and tugged the blanket off of my half sleeping figure.
"I'm tired! Just fifteen more minutes? Please?" I rolled my eyes and groaned even louder. All I wanted to do was sleep. I hardly ever got to do that anymore.
"Get up now." Steve ordered firmly, and walked out of the room.
Steve was more than my manager, he was also an assistant, and traveled everywhere with me. To the point where it got annoying and I just wanted to tell him to fuck off, and to leave me alone.
I closed my eyes one last time and dragged myself out of bed, and walked over to the sink and splashed cold water on my face. It was so cold and woke me up immediately. I got dressed quickly and walked out of the room, and saw Steve tapping his foot impatiently on the linoleum floor. He noticed me right away, and motioned for me to follow him.
I did, to a waiting limousine outside. It drove us to a building, where I followed Steve to the press conference room, and sat down beside him.
I could hardly keep my mind focused on the questions. They were all the same. 'When's your next album due?', 'Do you get nervous performing in front of millions of people?', 'Who are your musical influences?', and after a while, being asked the same questions over and over again, gets annoying. If I hear the same question being asked again, I just want to scream.
"Is the music business stressful?"
I closed my eyes, trying not to scream and just lash out, because I felt like exploding. I gulped and answered the question through clenched teeth.
"To a certain extent it is, it's not all glamour." I replied quietly.
Of course it wasn't all glamour. Most of it wasn't glamour. I had went into the music business because I loved to sing, and now I'm in it just because I have to be.
And I can't tell my mother that I dread this. I tried to tell her before, and she just laughed and said it was a phase. A phase. A phase that I hated it so much that I just wanted to scream? That was a few months ago, and I hadn't complained to her since, so I guess she thinks I'm over my phase.
And then there was the time, a few months ago, where Steve had made me work so hard, that my voice burned out to the point where I couldn't sing, and eventually I exploded emotionally, and had to go to the hospital for treatment for my voice.
The shots hurt. That I remember. Painful needles were dug into my skin and medicine was released, and I felt a bit bitter, but I still felt like I wanted to scream.
I still wanted to leave this so-called amazing career. I wanted to be like I was a few years ago. When I lived in Pennsylvania as a child, I got teased and bullied. But even that was better than this.
What I wanted was to be an innocent, young child, performing my days away, like I had on the Mickey Mouse Club. I wanted to dance and sing and act all day, and not have to worry about stress or who was going to bully me the next day. But of course, those days are long gone. And so is my life.
When the press conference was over, and I was sitting in the back of the limousine with Steve, he looked at me. "Christina, are you alright?"
I smiled, a fake smile, but I had faked so many smiles the past year that they had begun to look real. Or maybe it was just because I had practiced over and over again.
"I'm fine." I replied, and I could tell Steve didn't care if I was okay or not. All he cared about was his record label, and how much money he was making.
He didn't care about me.
I was beginning to wonder if anyone did.
I mean, the fans are one thing, but they just care about me because I released a song that they liked. They don't actually care about me, they just care about the image of me. What they think I am. But they don't even know me. They don't know what I'm really like.
As far as they know, I could just be an illusion in their mind. A picture made by a computer on the front of a magazine cover. God knows what technology can do these days.
Next stop, a photo shoot for some magazine that will make me take off all of my clothes, leave me almost completely naked. And even though I won't be naked, I'll feel naked.
I'll feel like a slut.
I followed Steve out of the limousine, and the driver shut the door behind me. We made our way up into the building, where immediately a make-up artist came walked up to me and pulled me over to a chair and began doing my make-up.
Mascara, blush, hairspray, lipstick, concealer, fake nails, eyeliner, lipliner, until suddenly I don't think I can even feel the air against my skin. It's not like I actually do feel air, but now my skin can't breathe, and I feel like it's suffocating, and I'll die. Even though I wouldn't mind dying right now.
Once all the make-up is done, a lady walks up to me and hands me something to get changed into. I look at it. Nothing more than a bra and panties. I sighed, and walked over to the changing room to get dressed into this...outfit.
When I got dressed I had to pose for the camera. And I wonder why. I'm supposed to be a singer, not a super model. But they treated me like a model.
Oh well. I almost lost my voice once before, if I lose it for real next time, maybe I can have another fucked up career.
I'm starting to think they have a back-up plan for me. If this doesn't work out, maybe they actually will make me into a model.
Damnit, why can't I just have my old life back. Even if I did have a dream in my old life, I'd rather just have it than experiencing it like I am right now.
After the photo shoot, I get dressed fully again, and I'm sitting in the limousine feeling dirty. Feeling exposed, feeling like a freak. Suddenly my cell phone rings, and I answer it with a weak 'hello'.
"Hey Chrissy!" I smile as I recognize the voice. And I realized something. The only person that was there with me through everything, the only person that stayed by my side while I was at the hospital, the only person that actually listened to me bitch away about my crappy day, was her.
"Hey Brit." I sighed, suddenly feeling great, like Britney had taken away all the shit out of my day.
"You okay?" She asked, and I leaned against the side of the door, feeling relaxed and calm. I didn't want to scream my head off anymore.
I wanted to hug her, I wanted to kiss her, she was amazing. With just her consideration, she had turned a completely horrible day around.
Maybe someone actually did care.