For 14 pitiful years I walked the earth without any particular purpose.

Growing up, the only thing that made any fuckin' sense was music. All I ever did when I was in the troubled teenage years of hormones, girls and high school was listen to friends. I had fuck all, probably just a record player and a couple of cds, that's all I had to my name. I remember, it was the year 1994 when I first got my hands on the debut album of Oasis. I recall getting my mucky fingers on that pristine disc, jamming it in the cd player and just sitting there, listening to it start to finish. How convenient the first song I heard from them was track 1 of Definitely Maybe; Rock N Roll Star. The chorus went "tonight, I'm a rock n roll star." And when I heard the nasal voice chanting that mantra for the first time, I had decided that the only thing in life for me was that, being a rockstar.

So, I saved up for a guitar, and later that year I got a shitty imitation Les Paul with rusted strings and shot intonation. I got a nice, solid practice amp with that too. Afterwards, I just practiced playing my guitar, eventually being able to play Rock N Roll Star and sing it simultaneously after about five months of practicing daily for for hours. That was the biggest success of my teen life, I was mediocre in school and had but a small group of sparse friends, sure, but I could play Rock N Roll Star. That was the fucking shit for me, that was all that truly mattered. I couldn't give a flying fuck about anything else. Rock and motherfucking roll was my life.

And yet, as the 90s progressed, so did my life. I was 14 when I first bought Definitely Maybe in 94, and in 1998, I was 18 and had to move on with my life and prioritize things. My drug slowly faded in relevance as 98' unfurled it's ugly chain of events, music had to take a seat in the back burner while I secured a life I did not want. I wanted the rock star life, and years later I get a part time job at a KFC and a flat shared with equally soulless individuals. My passion's irrelevance ballooned to the point where I had to sell my guitar for rent. That was on November 18th, 1999, the day I officially died inside.

And now I see myself at a dead, psuedosocial gathering of other teenagers whose dreams have been mashed into a fine pulp by the gears of society. December 31st, 1999. The celebration of a new millennium.

'How's it going John?" someone asks me as I lazily sip on a bottle of beer in a corner. I connect the voice to a face and I see Janet. She wanted to be an artist, painting landscapes that would dazzle the world. But now she finds herself also working at Arby's and taking a pre-law course which would lead to a career in law, devoid of any artistic expression.

I smile and mutter a positive response, and she replies with an "Okay," walking away to her boyfriend Rob. Rob's a really funny guy, in fact he wanted to be a comedian. Now he's an accountant.

A party of shattered dreams, overlooking a city of agony illuminated by soulless lights dotting the landscape. Somehow, my coworkers had secured a party on the top of some skyscraper, providing a pleasant view of New york city, specifically Times Square and its gaudy array of neon lights and displays that paint a technicolor landscape of commercialism. However, one specific display of gaudiness in particular that stands out is the massive countdown to the end of the year. My eyes were fixated on it, "let it actually mark something" my mind wished. "Let the new millennium literally be a new beginning, let my life turn itself back to simply music." my soul craved.

And as if the Gods above heard my pleas, lightning struck when the countdown went to zero.

The sky was illuminated by a parade of fireworks and balloons and confetti. The streets below were ripe with life and celebration, and the displays of Times Square sputtered in an out of function, sending out intermittent images, until eventually stopping altogether. I looked back at the party inside and witnessed pandemonium, however. I saw my coworkers in a manic rave as they attempted to bring their cell phones, portable television, personal digital assistants, laptops and such to life. They were all in a frantic rush to resuscitate their beloved electronics. While they were reacting adversely to this phenomena, I had nothing to care about. Everything I valued was with that guitar I sold a month ago. I wouldn't need a cellphone to communicate with, I had my guitar to communicate emotion with. I wouldn't need a portable television to indulge myself in man's latest muses with, I had a guitar to indulge myself in man's greatest art. I wouldn't need a personal digital assistant to remind me of where I was going, what i was to do, I had my guitar to remind me of my dreams and why I still live. I wouldn't need a laptop to do all these things, I had my guitar to do all those things and more.

But where is my darling now? In a pawn shop. I can hear her call now, echoing electric tears to me as she watches society collapse and implode on itself as men litter the streets with their exaggerated war and hatred. As man's sanity faded due to the oncoming onslaught of the Y2K bug's effects, I simply walked down to the pawn shop where my baby lay.

And yet all I found was a mass riot. Fighting, confusion, panic, and faint whistling. A man broke the pawn shop's window, and grabbed my baby from the window display it sat gracefully in. He used it to hurt another man. He wielded it like an axe and collided it's body with man's head. And so did the warheads set off by the Y2K bug.

They collided with the surface of New York, and anything resembling a dream or a glimmer of hope, life and optimism was erased from the surface of the earth.

And the last tune my mind produced amidst the death of millions was

it's just rock and roll.