“Touring was impossible to explain. It was this crazy, messed-up, distorted reality. The drugs and alcohol. The haze of jet lag. The brutal insomnia. The adrenaline that never left her body or let her sleep. The screaming fans. The press following her every move. The cameras shoved in her face. It was arriving at a different arena night after night, knowing you had nothing left to give. Looking through the wings at a sea of faces, fans screaming your name, expecting Joni Gold. Only it’s not you. It’s someone else pasting on a smile, stepping out into those dazzling lights, arms thrown wide—Hello, Brooklyn! Hello, Sydney! Hello, Tokyo!—when all you want is to curl up tight, to stay in the dark, because that’s where you belong. But you can’t. You must pump out this energy, fill a whole stadium with it, and it’s got to come from somewhere. But you don’t have any left. You’re a shell. An empty, broken shell! So you get it on loan any way you can—caffeine, cocaine, antidepressants, champagne, vodka, nicotine, ketamine—whatever you can get.”