80S ROCKSTAR IMAGINES.

frustration. • C.C. DEVILLE

   Tw: alcohol consumption

C.C. raked his hands through his hair, grabbing fistfuls of it and yanking slightly in indignation. He stared at the notepad that was in front of him, the scrawled writing of his lyrics taunting him, and his guitar lay at his side, abandoned. He had tried to play some chords in order to brainstorm some melodies, and he quickly switched gears to lyrics, since he couldn't play a good chord to save his life.

   But, that wasn't going well, either. He thought that he had been killing it, writing feverishly, and then, he took a moment to stop and read over what he had done. And, he had come to find that his lyrics were just as terrible as his chords. "Unskinny Bop?" What the fuck did that even mean?

   He stood up, pacing around wildly. For emphasis, he kicked the notebook in front of him. It didn't get very far, considering the floor was carpeted, but that didn't bother him. It was a cheap rage outlet, not a strength test.

   Although, that rage outlet was proven to be unsuccessful when frustrated tears started to prick his eyes. He groaned and collapsed on the floor again, pressing his palms to his eyes. Being in a band was so annoying sometimes, especially when he was the only one that would do shit. Poison was supposed to have a whole night centered around lyric-writing that night, but Rikki and Bret insisted that they should go out and party and leave C.C. home to write the lyrics. "You're just so much better at it than us, man!" Bret had said dismissively. "We wouldn't be able to add anything to what you're thinkin'."

   Bobby, however, was a more frustrating case. Bobby had claimed that he would stay with C.C. and help crank out a couple verses, but he had passed out in his bed before C.C. had even started. Waking him up was technically always an option, but C.C. knew that if he did, Bobby would say something like "yeah, yeah, be out in a minute," and then proceed to fall back asleep.

   The reason Bobby's case was so frustrating was that he was there, in the house, doing nothing of value. He could easily be helping out, but nope. He was sleeping his midday beers off. He had also said that he would help, and didn't keep his word. At least Bret and Rikki had straight up said that they weren't going to help, even though their excuse was lame as hell. He was grateful for their somewhat upfront attitudes, though.

   But, he was still pissed about Bret and Rikki, too. It didn't seem fair that they got to go out, party, and have the time of their lives while C.C. was stuck at home, practically pulling out his own hair due to his writer's block. He realized that he could just abandon the project entirely and go to bed, but that would mean he'd have a huge fight with the others about "slacking off." He could easily clap back with their lack of effort, but he felt that this wasn't worth the fight. Besides, these lyrics needed to get written, or else Poison would never put out another song again.

   Grabbing his notebook again, C.C. read his lyrics over once more. He was praying that the letters had somehow shifted while he had been wallowing in self-pity. Shifted to lyrics he could actually somewhat get behind.

   Alas, that didn't happen, and he would still cringe every time the words "unskinny bop" stared back at him.

   I can't possibly imagine the band digging this, he thought. He closed the notebook, laying down on his back and absently flipping it around. They're not picky, but damn.

That's when he heard the door unlock, and he sat bolt upright, eyes hopeful. Maybe this was Bret or Rikki coming to save him!

It wasn't, but the face he saw come through the door did not disappoint regardless.

You shut the door behind you after you had walked in, looking at your boyfriend, who was sat on the floor. You raised an eyebrow, not even bothering to question what the hell he was doing.