One rule. Don't fall in love. You're always on the road. You won't see her. You have groupies. Not fake love is bad for publicity.

But you do anyway. She's one of those street performers. The ones you always see. The ones with guitar cases. The ones that are usually middle age men looking for something. The ones with greasy hair and sad eyes.

She's a twenty-something, jeans and a tee-shirt and a linen button down, Malboros in the breast pocket, one in her mouth, firetruck red Chucks—hi-tops—fingers strumming an old Green Day song—pre-American Idiot—and a sign in the case—Money Isn't Spent on Booze or Cigs, Dad Needs Help. Well…?—wasn't supposed to be love. Just non-assholey-ness.

She asked me for something—did she recognize me? Was I that noticeable?—dinner. Girls didn't ask for dinner, that was the guy's job. Girls didn't do that, weren't supposed to.

What was I supposed to do… stand there like an idiot and stare? No—I might've but I didn't mean to—I took her out her choice. Mickey D's. We talked. I asked her about her dad—I didn't mean to make her cry—paralyzed, accident was a year ago. What's a girl supposed to do? She has no money, cue selling your soul to learn how to play and having enough experience to make drinks at a cheap bar every night. Hospital bills and rent and cigs, there was that.

She didn't want a fuck or money, she wasn't trying to be stupid. But she was. She didn't throw herself at me. She didn't know who I was. And she didn't want to. She was—and I probably sound like a complete and total pussy saying this—real.

Different, I didn't know her name and was already wrapped around her not so American Girl looks—emo maybe, but not All American—snake bites, too much eye liner, and a tattoo that said Cupcakes.

"What's with the tattoo, cupcakes…?"

"Are my Kryptonite. I was fat girl in High School. It was a birthday present."

"A tattoo?"

"Why not? I didn't want anything else."

Nothing. So here I was in McDonalds with a girl who didn't know my name. What could I do? Tell her everything? She would know me, I wasn't in a little indie band, we were MTV—not MTV U or anything else—worthy. And she would want me just because I was in Nimrod.

Boy in the band. That was me. But it all rushed out anyways.

No parted lips, no shock, not an anything. Not an 'I know.' A middle finger stuck up in the air and a walking away.

She'd told me everything and walked away, just like that. So there I was whipped as hell on a girl I didn't know in Mickey D's kinda wishing she was with me.

I left. Time to see the band. Alice, a fucker if I've seen one. And James, biggest playboy on this side of MTV. And quiet girl Angie, drummer chix.

"Where you been Jazz sucking some sad fuckers dick?" Alice.

"No. I think you need one. C'mon you can suck my dick if you want to."

"Eww. No thanks. I might get AIDS from that little lady dick you have."

Oh-kay then… "Hey James gimme a smoke?"

Pass, catch, light.

"Night."

"Night fucker."

Goodfuckingnight. Dreaming of used to be Fat Girl.

Wake up. It's 12:00 pm—am?—and the words are swirling. Composition notebook—check—soft core punkish lyrics—fuck no.

Love song—yes.

Dial 1-800-Whipped. Operators always open.

Sunday morning rain is falling, punk boy complete with Mohawk, is writing a love song and is totally and completely whipped with a girl he bought a Big Mac for.

Good for him.

Boy sees girl. Gives her money. Girl asks for dinner. Boy gives it to Girl. Boy tells the truth. Girl give him the finger and runs off. Shoe didn't drop. Not. A. Fairy. Tale.

You don't see her after that.