After the groupies tear off my shirt, the security guards blast them with a hose of beer. That only intoxicates the frenzied girls, who then begin to tear off their own clothes.

Ohhh yeaaaaaa.

But that's not why I'd want to be a rock star. It's the electric thrill of writing tunes that would last generations and playing those tunes for adoring crowds.

I'd stun them with my guitar wizardry. "I haven't seen anything like this since Eddie Van Halen!" the critics would shout.

From mellow, soulful pieces that would make the audience sway and raise their cigarette lighters, to head-banging earthquakes to incite violent mosh pits, my musical range would defy labeling.

My lyrics would be reprinted in books of poetry. Legions of fans would erupt in tears or rage or utter joy; such was the power and heartfelt honesty of my words.

For those reasons, I'd want to be a rock star.

The beer-drenched half-naked girls kinda help too.

It was with that thought that I picked up the guitar. I knew my fans would thank me for this day.

I plug in my amp, adjust the knobs, and clear my throat.

I can just feel the tingling excitement now. History was about to start. Years from now, the world would remember this day.

This day. The day I learned how to play a guitar.

I brought my pick to the strings and ran them through. A powerful sound boomed from my amps. My walls trembled; the ground shook.

I did it again, this time bellowing out some of my inspiring lyrics.

Strum strum strum!

"The day my baby left me,
I felt so hurt.
I treated her badly,
I treated her like… dirt."

The windows responded to such a cataclysmic event by shattering into a gazillion shards. The windowsill cracked too.

Countless windows outside broke as well. Crash after crash: car windows, headlights, even the glass on wristwatches.

Then came the car alarms, one after another. And the howls of dogs. And the crying babies. I could hear all the birds squealing, scrambling to fly away from the awful burp of a sound coming from my start as a rock star.

I wiped away the bits of ceiling paint from my shoulder. The room was struggling to stay in one piece after my nauseous melody.

I put the guitar down and vowed never to play it again. I knew my fans would thank me for that.

. . .

Do you want to be a rock star?