It had been a year since Sex Bob-Omb collapsed during that time, and Stephen's been debating on what to do. A solo album? A break from music altogether? It is hard to tell, but he's someone that seems to be tired of everyone's shit, including himself. He's not as much of a trainwreck as Scott was, but he's still over the place.

Stephen wrote some lyrics and strummed chords, but ultimately, he had no idea what the hell he was trying to say. His songwriting seemed to have gotten more vague and odd to decipher. He squinted at what he wrote and found it baffling. What was the message he was trying to convey here? He couldn't figure it out due to the nonsensical words he had written, words so strange even Chad Kroeger would laugh at them.

He sat on a chair in his apartment, staring at the clock, watching as time before him continued to move forward. Stephen is creatively in a rut and has no idea what to do. "Hmm, perhaps, if I do this, no, that's trying too hard." He groaned in annoyance, heard someone knock on his door, opened it, and saw you. "Hey, I'm Stephen Stills. Are you a Sex Bob-Omb fan or a random visitor at the wrong address?" Stephen asked.