text: Nov. 3, 2021 &#x200B; I came up with a band name today. "Ready, Aim, Tired". I was thinking about how meaningless my job is and how exhausted I am all the time because of it. I mean well, truly, but I am constantly feeling like I'm running on empty. Always filling my tank, just in time, with scrounged dollar bills carelessly put through the wash. It's not good money, but cash is cash. &#x200B; I often think about how precarious my predicament is. How I've been one paycheck away from abject poverty for my entire adult life. So I come to work and earn my measly $1700 per month. That'll do. It has to though, because I'm severely burnt out. &#x200B; I don't have the energy to go back to school, job hunt, update my resume. Hell, I don't even have the energy to work 5 days per week. Now I'm working 4. My choice, thankfully. I feel like I'm stuck in a cycle of never ending, repeating, days. Except the seasons change, my body starts aching, my hairline recedes, and I realize that there's a surprising amount of grey in it. I guess I really have been working here for 8 years. &#x200B; I've decided to call it silver hair, because mines shiny and only a little bit depressing. I just realized that "Shiny and only a little bit depressing" perfectly describes my guitar tone, my playing too frankly. Maybe that's the name of the debut album. &#x200B; "Ready, Aim, Tired - Shiny and only a little bit depressing" Doesn't exactly roll off the tongue, but I like it. &#x200B; I'm writing because I've been told it's good for you, and I could use some good in my life right now. &#x200B; My estranged father has been getting his neighbors to call me. I'm not sure why he doesn't just pick up the phone and call me himself. I'd probably be so shocked that I'd forget not to answer. He's sick, but not nearly as sick as he wants me to believe. His doctor told me it's "Munchausen syndrome". He's faking the rest for anything it'll earn him. &#x200B; He want's me to go out to \[place\] and spend time with him in my childhood home. Like it would somehow make him feel better, or validate his existence. It would be bad for me, and I would hate it there anyway. It stinks like piss and shit...because he did literally use the floor as a washroom for a couple months before his operation. He smokes like a 23 year old drunken socialite with a coke habit and he doesn't have screens in the windows, so there's always insects inside. &#x200B; What used to be my bedroom has had the carpet torn out and is filled floor-to-ceiling with the discarded boxes and packaging of at least five years of impulse purchases. It's as if he still hasn't learned that no amount of spending on himself will make him feel happy or fulfilled. &#x200B; He neglects his poor cat and micro-waves frozen dinners while chain smoking in the ruined house that my ruined family used to live in. &#x200B; I wanted to spew all of that at my dad's old neighbor Rick when he called me up 2 weeks ago, but instead I said; "Sure thing, I'll drive out to see him on Tuesday". Rick means well too, like me. But I never went out to see my dad. &#x200B; He bought me a guitar. Way back in July. I was spending time with him at least once per week for the first time since before my brother died. He wanted to buy me a nice gift for all of the birthdays and Christmas' we missed because he was too busy being an asshole for me to love him. I declined his offer a couple times, but he insisted. Once, getting angry when I said all I wanted as a gift was to hangout in the backyard with him and a couple beers. I instinctually did what I always used to do when he was angry. Comply, or else. &#x200B; So, I did some research and picked out a brand new electric guitar from Ibanez. They had just released them. I fell in love with the colors, the wood, the shape, and the features. I thought it was the perfect guitar for me. I even allowed myself to fully feel the excitement and anticipation. Later when I showed my musician friends what I ordered they each said "That guitar is so you!" excitedly...or some variation of that anyway. &#x200B; That was 4 months ago. My ADHD brain has decided that guitar playing doesn't make us happy anymore. Which is a shame because it showed up at my place today and cost me $300 in duties, taxes, and fees. Welp, I guess I only have $1400 this month for expenses. &#x200B; I'm writing this on a pile of post-it notes at work and I just thought to myself. Wouldn't it be funny if I go home, open the package, admire it, and play it, only to have disgust, resentment, and shame wash over me like a melancholy tidal wave of regret. &#x200B; I'll try not to hate it. I'll go home after my shift, open the box and not hate it for what it represents, but appreciate it for what it is. An instrument that's so me. Who knows, it might kick start a manic ADHD guitar binge that'll give me joy for a couple weeks. But for now I'm just going to take it as it comes. &#x200B; That might be on the debut album. Track #3, "Melancholy Tidal Wave" &#x200B; Nice.