Outside the window, a neon-coloured squirrel the size of a large dog was dragging a mailbox down the street while a man was running after it, swearing. Zoey paid it no mind. This kind of thing had started happening so often that it was easier to just accept it as some form of her stoned-mind trolling her.

Touring with her band was supposed to be the dream - the big middle finger to the universe and to her mom, whose collective dysfunction could have been bottled and sold as a reality show. It was supposed to feel like freedom. Instead, it felt like someone had strapped her to a malfunctioning tour van, shoved a joint in her hand, and whispered, "Have fun, kiddo."

Night after night, it was the same thing: play the gig, get drunk, get high, let some random stranger (name optional) keep her company for a few hours, rinse, and repeat. The music was the only thing that felt real. And yet, every song she composed seemed to make less sense than the last, like she was trying to outdo herself in a contest only she knew existed.

She hated how much control corporate greed had over everything, including her band. They had a manager now who spoke entirely in riddles and wanted them to sell branded socks. Socks. Like that was the hill they were going to die on. Socks!

She was mad at the world, mad at her mom, mad at herself for giving a shit about any of it. She'd smashed her guitar on stage last week, not because it was punk-thing to do, but because it felt better than screaming.

She sighed. Maybe she was broken.

The squirrel dragged its mailbox prize into an alley and disappeared. Zoey decided to write a new song.