【 ＦＩＶＥ：ＮＩＮＥ || ʙɪɢ • ᴛɪᴍᴇ • ʀᴜꜱʜ 】

【 𝟽 : 𝟶 𝟶 - ʟᴀꜱᴛ • ɴɪɢʜᴛ • ᴍʏ • ꜰᴀᴠᴏʀɪᴛᴇ • ʙᴀɴᴅ • ʙʀᴏᴋᴇ • ᴜᴘ 】

❝ ʏᴇᴀʀꜱ ᴄʜᴀꜱɪɴɢ ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴡᴀɴᴛ

ᴏɴᴇ ꜱᴛʀᴇᴛᴄʜ ᴏꜰ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ɢᴏᴇꜱ ᴡʀᴏɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ɪᴛ ᴀʟʟ ꜰᴀᴅᴇꜱ

ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ᴅᴀʏꜱ ᴡᴇ ᴏɴʟʏ ꜰɪɢʜᴛ ꜱᴏ ʜᴀʀᴅ

ɴᴏ ᴏɴᴇ ꜱʜᴏᴡꜱ ᴡʜᴏ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴀʀᴇ ᴛɪʟʟ ɪᴛ'ꜱ ᴛᴏᴏ ʟᴀᴛᴇ

ᴏʜ, ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪꜰ ɪᴛ'ꜱ ᴅᴏɴᴇ, ᴛʜᴇ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴡᴏɴ'ᴛ ɢᴏ

ᴏʜ, ɪ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ɪᴛ'ꜱ ɴᴏ ᴇᴀꜱʏ ʀᴏᴀᴅ, ᴘʟᴀʏɪɴɢ ᴏɴ... ❞

•·················•·················•

James always said it was bound to happen someday, and Jett agrees with him wholeheartedly.

After all, this is Hollywood, where everything has an easy expiry date. Food truck falafel leftovers and Starbucked Salted Caramel Nitro Cold Brews (with extorted-upgrade oatmilk) go belly-up rancid and leave a ripe maggoty aftertaste even when properly stored in cool areas—and no, they're not talking Beverly Hills here, pleb. Gentrified trendy iSlab re-trends and stupid SchmoopTube clickbait videos will always be replaced by the next cooler thing and cash out to corporate takeovers and shorter attention spans. Washed-out superstars and wannabe has-beens will always get buried under the next wave of twinkle-eyed drifters or tough-luck runaways digging their early graves deeper just trying to strike out on their mythical California gold rush.

Bad fortune cookies for everyone, and best wishes from LA. Welcome to the wasteland of the rich and famous and glitzy and supersized-me—where it's all groooovy gravy and indigestion saucy baby, 'cause sex, drugs, and rock 'n roll come easy-A and free! (Unless you don't want dairy in your sugary fucking yuppie drink, then it's an extra $0.70. And fuck right outta here with that crumpled cash and non-platinum American Express card.)

So no, musicians aren't going to be exempt from that blood-forged golden rule. Most especially not crackerjack boybands specifically designed to appeal to melodramatic teenyboppers and tweenage parents' stolen credit cards. Gustavo Rocque had his artery-clogging cake and shoveled too much of it down his hefty gut too (and ended up choking on it with his constant richter-shaking polemics, rest his ginormous soul). Arthur Griffin has been steadily sliding lower down on the annual Forbes list ever since that whole labour union strike and military coup d'etat that left RCM-CBT GlobalNet Sanyoid's almighty Kerplankistan assets entirely crippled, and the geriatric CEO's clearly running out of legally-grey schemes and shenanigans to arthritis-jitterbug over with his shady lawyers just to keep milking the curdled cash cow. Big Time Rush has had its hoopla heyday and heady hall of fames and hit records topped by sold-out concerts and screaming fangirls alike, and with it, the Kool-Aid boyband grew up into an undrinkable manband. Like fine wine, or spoiled oatmilk, or an odd vinegary mix of both.

But the (im)moral of the story to be taken with all the ocean's salt is that even with all those exponentially dogpiling setbacks, the perpetual fame machine is still hungrily chugging along and beginning to leave all of their deadbeat asses behind, and they either have to gracefully bow out sometime or get squashed into road paste and tarred along the Interstate Five.

So it's finally bye bye bye for BTR, and all's well that ends well—

Well, supposedly, anyway. Everyone who's been 'someone' (to put it rather generously) is growing up against their wills, and as proper suffering grownups are expected to do, James has more or less reconciled with his dwindling dancing dog fate and accepted all of these unfortunate inevitabilities. Which is surprisingly mature of him, in all honesty.