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3:30 p.m.
No way could I write at my house—turning the corner of my street unveiled a desperate scene. The media swarmed the street and crowded the front of my property. Cigarette smoke was visible above the heads of some of the camera crews. Tim Hortons coffee cups littered the street and lawn. Some faces were recognizable to me—faces from the past, from Irondale days. The fanatics were there, too, wearing their Steven t-shirts. No way! Not you freaks!
I had slowed the car about fifty feet away from them when I realized the fans had spotted me. They started to point excitedly. I ducked the car into a neighbour’s driveway, backed it up out onto the road and looked over my shoulder. I saw that they’d fanned out across the road and were running for me, a wall of Steven t-shirts stretching from one sidewalk to the other. They wanted Donny Love, the man who had inside information on their mythological godhead Steven McCartney, who would one day set them free from their pathetic lives in a way that even Jesus couldn’t have imagined.
If I didn’t write soon, I’d have to kill myself. I considered driving down to the steel factory and hurling myself into a coke oven. I just needed a quiet spot to get my fix. It scared me to the core to see how I was jonesing for this sick, self-destructive lie of mine.
