After our first performance, I was on cloud nine. The rush of the stage and the applause of the audience had me hooked, and I couldn’t wait to do it all again. But it wasn’t just about the rush of performing, it was about the recognition that came with it. The Long Island tribute scene was tight-knit, and word of my uncanny resemblance to Brandon Boyd of Incubus was spreading like wildfire. Every day became about the band, and I would spend hours commuting to and from Long Island to rehearse. The small rehearsal studios were hot, stuffy, and crowded. But it was in those moments that I felt alive. I’d drink cold beer between songs, feeling the cool condensation on my fingertips as I belted out the lyrics. The ringing in my ears after each practice was a sign that I was giving it my all, and I couldn’t wait to see where this would take me. As our sound improved, so did my ego. I felt like a rock star, like I was on my way to fame and fortune. And the more I drank, the louder the voice in my head became. But I didn’t care. I was becoming addicted to this new lifestyle, to the thrill of performing on stage and the adulation of the crowds. And the beer was only making things worse. But I couldn’t stop. I needed that feeling of euphoria, that rush of adrenaline, that sense of being invincible.
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