DISCLAIMER #1: I, for the love of God, do not fucking use AI.

DISCLAIMER #2: Please do not make any webcomic requests or commissions. Thank you.

DISCLAIMER #3: All characters and events in this article--even those based on real people--are entirely fictional. All celebrity personas are impersonated... poorly. The following article contains coarse language and adult content; therefore, it should not be viewed by anyone.

The neon lights of the Sunset Strip in Los Angeles flickered with a false promise—fame, freedom, reckless abandon. The air was thick with weed smoke and the metallic tang of cheap beer. Somewhere, a guitar wailed, a crowd roared and another groupie slipped backstage, chasing the myth of rock 'n' roll ecstasy. But let's be honest: the myth was rotting from the inside out.

I'm not here to preach from some moral high ground. I've seen the mess up close, danced in its wreckage, even waded through it a time or two. But as the counterculture burns itself out, as the revolution we championed hardens into cliché, it's time to call out the lie we've been sold. The lie that sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll are some sacred trinity of liberation. Because from where I'm stood? It wasn't liberation. It was just another kind of cage.

The Cult of Avril the Wasted Genius

In a small town called Greater Napanee, Ontario, a young girl named Avril Lavigne--yes, that Avril Lavigne--turned on the radio, flipped through This Magazine. There were other places where the little bitch heard it, just not in the magazine (because it focused on politics, not music)—the hushed reverence for the musicians who "lived hard". The ones who overdosed in hotel bathtubs, who fucked anything that moved, who smashed their guitars like it was some grand existential statement. The problem wasn't that they did it. The problem was that people like her seemed to reward them for it. They turned self-destruction into an aesthetic, addiction into a badge of honor.

Jim Morrison didn't die a poet—he died in a Paris bathtub from heart failure with no autopsy. Janis Joplin left behind legacy of wisdom—but she also left behind a needle and a posthumous album titled Pearl. These weren't martyrs. They were human beings, broken by an industry that profited off their unraveling. But Lavigne keep spinning the same fable: that art required suffering, that chaos breeded brilliance.

Bullshit. Real artistry took discipline. It took showing up, even when the high wore off. Glorifying wreckage didn't make poor Lavigne deep—it just made her predictable.

Sex as a Spectator Sport

Then there was the myth of free love. The idea that Lavigne could be an enlightened hedonist like rockstars, that every backstage pass is a ticket to some utopian orgy. But let’s peel back the velvet curtain. How many girls get passed around like party favors, told they should be grateful for the attention? How many wake up with bruises they can’t explain and a hollowness they won’t admit?

I’ve seen it too many times—women discarded like empty beer bottles, called “groupies” like it’s a cute little title, not a way to erase their humanity. Meanwhile, the men get to call it “living the dream.” The revolution was supposed to be about equality, but in these dimly lit dressing rooms, the rules haven’t changed. The game’s just gotten sleazier.

And let’s not pretend the drugs even the score. Sure, everyone’s popping pills and snorting lines like it’s communion, but who pays the price when the party ends? Not the rock star with the platinum record. It’s the girl who gets labeled a junkie, the roadie who loses his job, the friend who has to scrape you off the bathroom floor—again.

The Empty Rebellion

The worst part? We were supposed to be better than this. The hippies talked about peace and love, but somewhere along the way, peace became passivity. Love became a euphemism for exploitation. And rebellion? Rebellion got reduced to a marketing gimmick. Buy the right records, wear the right jeans, fuck the right people, and suddenly, you’re a revolutionary.

But what are we rebelling against, really? The war? The system? Or are we just rebelling against sobriety, against responsibility, against growing up? Because if the revolution is just an excuse to get loaded and avoid the hard work of building something real, then we’ve already lost.

Woodstock was three days of peace and music, and we called it the dawn of a new era in counterculture. But when the tents came down, the world hadn't changed—just the soundtrack. Altamont's bloodstains dried in the sun, and Hendrix died nine months later and the idealism curdled into cynicism. Yet everyone kept playing the same chords, singing the same hollow anthems, pretending the reckoning wasn't coming.

A Different Kind of Resistance

Should Lavigne have traded her guitar for hymnals? No. There was simply a difference between freedom and freefall. Between living and just surviving the next high.

Real rebellion wasn't about how much Lavigne wished she could obliterate herself. It was clarity. It was about looking at the mess she'd made and deciding to do better. It was about creating art that didn't demand a body count.

So next time someone tries to sell someone like Avril the myth—the tortured artist, the free love fantasy, the rock 'n' roll suicide—ask yourself: Who really benefits from that story?

Because the truth is, the only ones winning are the ones cashing the checks.

The rest of us are just dancing in the wreckage.

The city of Hell wasn't all brimstone and judgment. Sure, the air was thick with sulfur, the sky was perpetually bruised purple and sinners screamed at all hours of the night.

Hell had it vices. And nowhere were those vices that more apparent than in the heart of their capital, where the neon bled into the shadows and the bassline of a thousand distorted guitars echoed through the avenues. This was the home of Loona. This is where she worked. This is where she survived.

"Oh, how dreadful," they said. "Look at these animals."

And yet—those same sanctimonious saviors sipped on vintage soul-wine, hosted wild parties in private chambers and probably microdosed despair just to feel something.

And Avril Lavigne was one of them. It didn't matter where she came from--down here, up there--she hated the visiblity of the lifestyle. She hated seeing imps and demons do it the open without bowing to some hollow ideal.

Surviving in Helluva Boss wasn't just about dodging demon lords or outrunning Reapers. It was about navigating hypocrisy.

Although Lavigne was a sanctimonious savior herself, she didn't seem to have or even host anywhere near as many wild parties as the others. Nevertheless, she was around them 24/7 because she best represented their type—pious little pricks in their gilded mansions, noses upturned, preaching about "morals" like they hadn't sold their own souls for a throne and a title. They clutched their pearls (probably made from damned souls) and called them degenerates. They looked at Blitzo slinging contracts in a cheap suit, Moxxie grinding on a pole or Loona—the horned, tattooed, chaotic hellhound—doing a backflip off a lamppost while licking a lollipop the size of her skull. That made her sneer.

That was the real sin to Avril Piece of Shit Lavigne—not the sex, not the drugs, not the music. It was the audacity to live without shame.

But here's the kicker--she glamorized it like she didn't have anything better to do in her life.

Loona was always doing handstands on demons' faces while screaming the lyrics to "Highway to Hell", wondering how many hours it would take before "Complicated" got played for the millionth time. Either so that she wouldn't have to hear the latter song or so she could desperately try to hold back the urge to puke for the many hours it took for Lavigne's most popular hit to play through.

And not every night ended with a standing ovation and a golden toilet. Some nights, the drugs made her puke rainbows for twelve hours. Some mornings, she woke up tangled in barbed wire with no memory of how she got there. And the "sex" part? Sometimes, it was... lonely.

Then there was the way Lavigne made it sound. If she were in the Pride Ring, she'd be one of its many influencers. Suddenly, every burnout with a guitar and a sob story is a "rebel poet". Every club kid snorting hellfire off a tombstone was a "revolutionary". Every degenerate was a "tragic artist", and every overdose was "just part of the journey, man".

Bullshit, Loona thought to herself. Glamorizing this life isn't rebellion. It's marketing. It's painting a pretty picture of self-destruction and calling it freedom. It's turning pain into a brand and selling it to wide-eyed imps who think dying for a beat drop is romantic.

The hellhound lived this life. She didn't need for Lavigne or anyone else to frame it. She knew the truth.

I.M.P. was the most dysfunctional assassination company this side of the Seven Circles. Blitzo was out skipping therapy and quoting Queer as Folk, while Moxxie ran the office like a dominatrix CEO on espresso and spite. Loona was the office gremlin, the chaos gremlin, the one who set things on fire for fun. But even with all the tattoos, piercings and questionable life choices, she wasn't an icons. She wasn't a poster child for anarchy. They were all just... trying to get by.

And yeah—sometimes that meant drugs. Not because it was cool, but because the silence gets too loud. Sometimes it means sex—not because Loona was some untamable seductress, but because touch reminded her she was still alive. And rock and roll? It was a lifeline. The music, the scream, the rhythm—it was the only thing that made the static in her head feel like poetry.

But when did that become something pop celebrities like Avril wanted to either condemn or worship?

Avril and the rest of the haters wanted to lock it all away, label it "sin", toss it into a pit with the rest of the "undesirables". And the fans wanted to put it on a pedestal, make it a religion, sell merch with slogans like "Die Young, Stay Pretty".

Loona's response? "Neither of you fucking get it."

This life wasn't about virtue or vice. It was about feeling. It was about the moments when the world felt too heavy, and the only thing that made sense was screaming into a microphone, dancing until your hooves bled or getting so high you forgot your own name... until it stopped making sense. Or as long as you remained self-aware.

And why would anyone pretend for a second they hadn't been drawn to it? Avril had seen the way the "good" demons stared when Moxxie walked into a room. Loona had seen the way Blitzo's punk rants made even the stiffest bureaucrats twitch. She'd seen the way Hell's elite craved the chaos they claimed to hate.

The real sin wasn't the lifestyle. It was the denial.

Denying that darkness was a thing. Denying that, sometimes, the only way to outrun it was to become it. Denying that maybe, just maybe, there’s beauty in the broken things—not because they’re broken, but because they keep going.

Loona wasn't proud of every choice she'd made. She'd hurt people. She'd hurt herself. She'd woken up in gutters, cried in bathrooms (well, occasionally; most of the time, she would simply roll her eyes or yell right back at the bathroom mirror) and cursed her own reflection.

But she'd also laughed until she couldn't breathe. Danced like the world was ending. Screamed loud enough to wake the dead (which, in Hell, isn't that impressive).

And she'd done it honestly.

Not because Loona was trying to impress anyone. Not because she was living out some fucked-up fantasy. But because it was real. However, even if it was real, that still didn't excuse it.

And that's what neither the haters, nor the fans nor Lavigne could handle. They were terrified of authenticity. They'd rather live in clean lies than messy truths.

The fans? They'd rather worship a myth than face the pain behind it.

Loona would take the take the mess. She'd take the hangovers, the heartbreaks, the hellfire hangnails. She'd take the nights when the music saved her and the mornings when it didn't. She'd take the sex that empowered and the sex that emptied. She'd take the drugs that opened doors and the ones that slammed them shut.

Because this — all of this — is mine.

And I don’t need your judgment.

And I certainly don’t need your idolization.

I just need to keep moving.

To the beat.

To the burn.

To the beautiful, terrible, alive chaos of it all.

So yeah — I hate people who despise this life.

And I hate people who glamorize it.

Because they don’t see me.

They don’t see us.

They see a symbol. A sin. A saint. A martyr. A monster.

But I’m just Loona.

Horny, messy, loud, cursed, alive.

And if that makes me a problem?

Good.

Problems don’t get forgotten.