I can't do this any longer. I'm this close to compromising myself and blowing the mission. Please get me out of here as soon as possible.
I assume you've heard that the record label is talking about sending Crowley's Thoth into space. I'm not just talking about shows at the Lagrange habitats. No, I'm talking about shows on Luna, then on to Mars, Titan Orbital, the prison habitats around Uranus, and beyond Pluto to Nyx. Not to mention the months of ship time in between. I'll be away from Earth for /years/, cooped up with Morgan, Naomi, and the other passengers and crew.
There's no way I can do that. The work I'll have to do so that years in low gravity won't leave me unable to return home is bad enough, but I can barely tolerate being around Morgan and Naomi long enough to keep the band going. Recording with them is painful, rehearsal equally so, and actually performing with them? It's been obvious for years that the fans are there for /them/ and that I barely rate an afterthought, but even the press tend to ignore me now, too. They get most of the coverage. They get most of the questions.
Christ, they even get most of the unsolicited nudes, and while they gripe about it at least they're getting unsolicited nudes of attractive people. You know what I got? Some guy bending over and spreading himself so wide I thought he was going to turn himself inside out. He couldn't even be arsed to take off his bloody wedding ring before taking this pic and sending it with a letter saying, and I quote: "I wish you'd do me the way you do Morgan. I can take whatever you've got."
I'm pretty sure that otaku slut Claire Ashecroft put him up to it, whoever he was. It suits her sense of humour entirely too well. Incidentally, is there a way to translate her bullshit into something approximating a reasonable adult's side of a conversation? I don't know how Morgan and Naomi put up with her, but every time she opens her mouth it's fucking Darmok at Tanagra.
Christ. Now I'm talking in memes, too. You see why I need to get out of here? These people are around the bend and likely to take me with them.
Incidentally, I know why angels keep showing up at Crowley's Thoth shows. It's /your/ bloody fault. The executive council obviously isn't content to use Morgan as an assassin, now you've got him doing fucking supernatural pest control, too, and it seems the demon in your basement is none too pleased with the notion. Yet another reason for me to get out of here; people are figuring out it isn't just rock 'n roll, and when journalists pay any attention to me at all it's to ask what it's like to be dating a devil killer.
I could keep finding reasons and excuses, but the plain truth is that I know you don't love me. I've /always/ known, despite the kindness and tenderness you've shown me, but for some reason I thought that maybe if I served you well enough and gave you my everything...
Forget it. It's stupid, and I'm stupid for thinking it could even happen. Wizards like you don't fall for ordinary women like me outside of those ridiculous fucking manga Claire likes to read. Wizards like you fall for witches like Tamara.
And don't try to tell me I'm imagining things. I see the way you look at Tamara. You go faraway and sometimes you get this absent smile when you're watching her or just thinking of her. It's the way Morgan often gets around Naomi.
I know I'm rambling, but it's late and I'm drunk. You're lucky I'm as coherent as I am. But I can't do what you need me to do any longer. I can't live like this any longer. Today's my birthday, and I have nobody to share it with. No friends, no boyfriend, no real family. I'm lonely, and it hurts, and I've had enough.
Get me out of here, Imaginos, before I break down and tell Morgan and Naomi everything. I don't like what I've become, and I don't want to be Christabel Crowley any longer.
Wishing I was no longer yours...