They always ask me, “What’s it like?”

What’s it like to be a celebrity, to be a star, to be Joshua fucking Chasez, king of pop, a songwriter, a singer, a dancer, a celebrity (this deserves to be listed twice), a media whore?

What’s it like to lie to the world, to paste a smile on my face, what’s it like to live in paranoia of the press, what’s it like to wake up sweating, sobbing, screaming, and terrified all the while of pictures being taken?

Fucking fabulous. A goddamn dream come true.

I sit here everyday, hating the fans, hating the press, hating the guys, hating myself. I think hate flows in my veins now, a sweet and icy poison creeping into my heart, taking over, shortening my breath and clouding my eyes.

Every now and then I lose it, scream and rage and break things, hit things, like the other night. Justin said something- I can’t even remember what? And before I knew what was happening his blood was all over my fist and his nose was broken and I had no idea what I had done, I was confused and frightened but most of all furious, absolutely fucking livid, breathing anger, dripping hatred.

Justin. My brother, my best friend, the little boy I’d known since he was a frightened boy on the Mickey Mouse Club. I broke Justin’s nose.

Lance asks me, every so often, if I’m okay. Yes, I’m okay. I reply. Of course I’m okay, I’m a celebrity, I’m always okay.

He shakes his head at me, sighs. You’re really losing it, Josh. He says. You’re really taking this celebrity thing too far. You can be yourself once in a while, you know?

Who’s Josh? I don’t even know anymore. I lie awake at night and stare at the ceiling and try to remember who he is. Who is this Josh they speak of so fondly, who is this Josh smiling back at me in pictures, who is this artistic and beautiful and charismatic boy they talk of?

When the girls rush up to me, clamoring for an autograph, I wonder whose name I’m signing. It’s not mine, that’s for damn sure. It’s, it’s this man who smiles at everything and cracks jokes and doesn’t have a care in the world and doesn’t sit in the bathroom at three in the morning, watching the blood run down his wrists in wonder.

Not me.

So who is he? Where did he go? How did he get lost in the whirl of media, of fame, of award shows and backstage parties and Lance’s coke addiction and Joey’s alcoholism and the tracks running up Justin’s muscular arms?

Is he like me? Is he depressed, does he cry every night? Somehow I can’t believe he does what I do, he looks so happy, so amused in those glossy magazine pictures.

They ask me what it’s like, what it’s like to be me?

I always smile, say, it’s just wonderful. It’s a dream come true.

But they’ve never dreamed my dreams.

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