Happiness

       You stand there, staring out at a sea of teenage girls screaming your name. Lights of blue, green, and red shine down on the faces of your band mates, and yours, brightening your smiles like the lights on a football field. There are multiple white spotlights raining down on you, some right in your dark eyes, and I swear they are blinding you—you've experienced it so many times, however, that my concern falls dead.
       You are living your dream.
       Every shirt in the crowd is white, colored with black and red, each reading your band's name. These girls wish so bad to marry you, like a pack of crazy dogs—dogs that don't do as they're told. As you sing, your microphone carries your voice throughout the entire building, every note precisely on key.
       Suddenly, the pleasant smell of roast beef enters my nose, like a welcome intruder snapping me back to reality. I watch on the television screen as you end the song, a definite bang bang of the drum set to let everyone know it's over. The girls scream; you're living your dream, and I am so happy for you.