[VicFuentes] I Want

It became routine.

Write lyrics. Create music. Record tracks. Write lyrics. Record more tracks. Finish album. Sell album. Write lyrics. Tour for months. Begin again.

As messed up as it sounded, that was my routine. Songs can be inspired from the littlest thing or emotion, or so I think. Recording in the studio, surrounded only by music, is the greatest gift and feeling in the entire universe. Then, there’s touring. I go months in a bus with about five guys in total and only one bathroom. The thought, oddly enough, makes me smile. On the bus is where we bond the most; where the band comes together no matter how much BO is given off to spend our lives together. It’s even more magical than recording because touring gives you the opportunity to meet all of the people who appreciate the music you create, play, and love.

The bus is my home, even when we’re not touring we stay there. We are usually accompanied by our tour manager and merchandise boy. A girl for merchandise was something that we never had and it became a tradition to use Greg; he’s our blonde, lip pierced, tattoo sleeves lining both his arms, skinny, freakishly tall best friend since high school. Greg was also our tour manager, being the most responsible guy that we all knew. Other than that, we were usually on our own: me, my brother, and our best friends, our manager/merchandise bitch.

I rolled over onto my back, pulling the blanket over my shoulders. The plastic, glow-in-the-dark stars glued to the ceiling of my bunk were losing their glow. Sunlight was slowly making its way throughout the bus, warming the air. A small smile formed on my lips as I stretched my arms backwards. Rolling onto my side, I pushed myself out of the bunk. Paul’s bunk was the one on top of mine; his green curtains were open to reveal an old Ninja Turtles blanket that his younger brother left on the bus last night crumpled up at the foot of the bunk, a worn out teddy bear sitting on top of it. I bit down on my lower lip, hard, in order to suppress the laughter. Glancing over at the other two bunks, the same exact creation was formed. Except, Connor’s sheets were black and Heath’s were plaid, a stuffed animal sat atop of both.

I walked into the bathroom, turning on the quaint shower that we had added to the bus. About five minutes later, I stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around my body before blow drying my brown hair. Rummaging through my makeup bag, my hands grasped onto the black eyeliner and mascara. Humming while applying both, I heard my cell phone going off, playing No Bragging Rights’ ‘Passion vs. Fashion’, deciding to ignore it, knowing it was one of the guys. I pulled at the towel, holding it tightly against my body as I walked out of the bathroom and towards my suitcase. Grabbing my black, skinny jeans along with a white tank top, black vest, and white high heels, I walked to the backroom to get dressed.

About three minutes later, I walked out of the backroom and ran my hands along the hem of my tank top. My appearance was never a problem with fans. Only having one tattoo (‘I was meant to make you smile/I was meant to make you shine’ from “If You Can’t Ride Two Horses At Once You Should Get Out of the Circus”) on the right side of my ribcage and my only piercing being an industrial piercing, I don’t exactly fit in completely with the crowd around me. Not that they truly care; not when the connection between people is something as influential as music. My style is a mix between band tees, nicer shirts, vests, leather, jeans, and high heels. You can say that it’s my image. [AN: If You Can’t… is really by Asking Alexandria.]

Walking out of the bus, I grabbed my cell phone off the table and shoved it into my back pocket on the way. Stepping down the stairs, I jogged over to the diner across from the bus. Tiffany’s Diner had been around since the seventies, welcoming everyone in passing. The first show of every tour had always began in New Jersey, allowing eating at Tiffany’s to become a tradition for the day of the first show. I would never order a breakfast platter, my fork always poked at the guys’ pancakes or waffles. We sat in the same booth, the same spots, and ordered the same thing. Usually I wasn’t told who the band, or bands, we tour with are until they joined us at the diner. This time was nothing different.