C. You signed the
contract, because obviously she wasn’t the Devil. You actually weren’t even
that religious, so the fact that thought had even crossed your mind was kind of
bewildering. You released a new album in nearly a year later titled My Life is a Living Hell. It turned out
that it didn’t matter if she wasn’t or was the Devil, you were still in Hell.
With all of this money and all of this fame, you had finally accomplished all
of your goals and had nothing to strive for anymore.
You
fell into a deep depression on that lead to a river of booze and fish made of
drugs. You would go to jail and handful of times and eventually have as many
DUIs has you did hit songs. You would find yourself actually wishing you could
go back to your bland and boring life, but you knew that wasn’t really an
option.
There
wasn’t even an option to stop producing music, because you were contractually
obligated to release a record every two years for the rest of your life. The night you died of drug overdose, you
dreamt of quarters being rubbed together. For a least a moment, you were happy,
and in that moment you died.
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