Fuck it. Let’s pack it in, it was a good run.

I am washed up. I was hours away from finishing an edit, when Premiere went and decided to corrupt files, count them all as duplicates. Days, down the drain.

Spent my check on bills, counting on this edit to pull me through until the next check, or edit comes along. The further I try to fix it, the further it seems to get messed up. It’s getting to the point where I’m going to have to go back and re-sync all the footage, manually and RE-edit, RE-mix, and RE-watch 1.5 hours of a ceremony. For what? $250. That’s what. I care because I love doing it, but I’m doing it more so for the money. I need the money. I’m so fucking desperate for it. I’m no longer a professional. I’m a two-bit loser whose strapped for cash. I despise my job, but I’m not qualified for much else other than half-knowing the things I want to.

I don’t play drums anymore. Not by choice. It’s been over 6 months. I’m 27. What the fuck am I going to accomplish at that age? Buy a jam space, jerk myself off like every other washed up musician. I’m not playing, writing, travelling anymore. When I do, it’s guitar for a dad rock band. I’m upping my chops, to songs I want to throw up to. I’ve sold my soul. For what? I’m not even making any money. I’m not getting ahead. I’m the same place I was at 23, 24, just older now, more pathetic. It gets pathetic when a 27 year old wants to play in a band and practice and get good. Famous musicians die at my age. They’ve put out multi-million dollar records. I’m nowhere. I know it’s a finite amount of people who make it in their 20’s, but I’m not even trying. It’s difficult to be staring down the barrel of my 30’s with nothing to show. Nothing but a few shitty solo records, some shittier older records I may play a few drums on, and that’s it. Nobody’s listening. Nobody cares.

I was thinking today while frustrated over this edit, the lineage of why I’m frustrated. I need the money, I’m over my own timeline, this should’ve been done days ago. I really need this money, because I’ve spent all of mine. I have a significant other who makes substantially more, and is much more responsible than I. I would never ask for money, but it’s the problem. Too many things I want to do. All of them lead to what? Where? I get a jam space, then what? Nothing. I pay off some debt, then what? Nothing. I’ll just go out and buy more shit. It doesn’t matter. For what? To wake up to my bullshit job I loathe waking up to do. I’m not passionate about it, and there’s no upward mobility in it either. There’s no incentive to it. I’m not doing anybody any good. Starting with myself, and onto others. It’s fucking cold here. None of my perceived lines of future endeavors seem to lead anywhere. What am I doing with my life? I’ve done it, I’ve fallen into the trap and now I’ve also sunken in the self-deprecation trap as well. Repeating and repeating and repeating and repeating. I’m on repeat. In my writing here, my music, my art, my days, my life, my ideas, my dreams, my way of thinking, my mistakes, my saves all on repeat like a tape or CD player setup to start all over again and again after it exhausts itself. Perhaps a moment or two of relief, in reality, suspension of disbelief. Then once again, it begins again, the same old tired fucking record that nobody wants to hear.

It’s hard to go on when you know you’re only contributing to the content mill. Millions of stupid ass kids are pumping useless content onto the internet. I’m not special and I never will be. I’ll just be that guy who used to play in a few bands when he was younger. Just like everybody else. Just like every body else.

More so, it’s tough to justify caring about much of anything. All I ever wanted to do was make a difference. I’m just another schmuck. It’s so oppressive, this line of thinking. Why do anything? Why? What’s the point? I haven’t even started drinking yet. I told myself I wouldn’t, but today has gotten bleak. Why put out art? I’m nobody on the road to nowhere. No, that’s not true. On the road to mediocrity. That’s what. I can’t think of much else. You’re only as good as your last accolades, and I don’t even remember the last time I stood out in excellence, did anything extraordinary, excelled above the pack in anything for anyone. I’m just a “nice” person. I’m a good guy. I am good to people. That doesn’t make you good at anything though. Absolutely nothing. Fucking squat. I have no motivation to do anything anymore. I get in these moods more and more as time goes on.

I’m tired. I’m tired. I’m tired. Tired of running the rat race. I was screaming this sentiment of the last few paragraphs at 26, 25, 24, 23, 22. I am the same fucking person. Struggling and fighting in the same damn place. I know I do it to myself, but I don’t know how. I’m self aware, but yet cannot pin down in my mindset where I’ve gone wrong. How have I let this go on for this many years? I might “learn” or “grow” or “learn from my mistakes" but i just, know not to do THAT again. I find new ways of putting myself in the same exact place I’ve always been. I’ve always been ALMOST great. ALMOST buddy, almost.

Almost is a kind way of saying, not at all.