That being said, as bad as she got, Becky will get worse. Not only does she have to contend with being the creation of a self-hating throwback who never got over the concept of defining her identity by affixing it to some man, she's also the sum product of the jealousy and rage that professional musicians inspire in her creator. Oh, sure, we get condescending nonsense from that fatuous oaf John about how she's a figure of pity who witlessly and selfishly threw away friendship to chase a cardboard star down the road to ruin and despair but we know that pity to be a lie. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that the man who didn't have the brains, patience and stamina to master the piano wants to tear the people who can do better than him to pieces so that he doesn't have to look in the mirror and see not a straight shooter but a vindictive, sullen, whining failure who simply cannot compete. This means that when he makes fraudulently sympathetic and ill-informed comments about birds in gilded cages, he's actually having a Storegasm about Becky not only dying in a gutter after overdosing on horse tranquilizers but also being violated post mortem by her bandmates.
Given that her dalliance with Jeffo and her ludicrous defeat at the hands of a man with a length of garden hose is a foretaste of the Hell she'll be living in for the rest of her brief, unhappy life for daring to be more than some moron shaking a tambourine like an idiot so a spoiled brat can pretend that she's a rock star, we thus steel ourselves to endure every tired cliche about the high price of fame. What is more, we can expect it to be written in language so stilted that it will give the Noble Scribe the hopping fantods.