I begin this post with a rant. I had to vent and had no one to vent to so what better way than to write it out. Thats the purpose of a blog. Start your own here.
Here’s my rant:
I hate my life.
It’s the truth.
Anything is better than keeping that stuff on my chest. Keeping that shit on my chest is like being under a bus. I don’t feel like keeping that shit on my chest anymore. So I’m gonna come out and just say …
that I hate my fucking life.
I’m sick of grinding and I’m sick of struggling and I’m sick of eating McDonald’s. Sick of not wanting to go to the gym and I’m sick of not finishing songs.
Also sick of not being able to do what the fuck I want to do and not have enough money to buy even a T-shirt, and then they tell you to hide that and pretend like you’re happy and fake it till you make it.
Forget you, I’m gonna walk around with a sad face because that’s the way I feel and if I fake it its not going to make me feel any better. If I just let it be, I will feel better, and I’ll soon have a genuine smile.
It seems like I’ve been struggling all my life. All these words I’ve said them 100 times. I hate my life. This depression’s got to go. This McDonald’s binge has to go. This way of living has to go. These pills and medications have to go.
The pains of a newbie blogger
I’m inundated with info. I want to have a body, I want to have great pictures from a great camera, and top notch blog writing skills. Also, I want to have the music and guitar skills but I already have some of that… should I just break it down into one thing and forget the rest?…
Right now I’m next to my gym and I just bought a McDonald’s meal for the second time today. I’m circling around the gym and I’m in my jeans. I really don’t feel like changing into shorts even though I have them with me. I want to go work out in my jeans but I’m gonna do arms today so I don’t need no shorts… but they got rules at the gym.
(Notice that most of the sentences above contain the word…”I”)
Having I in all my sentences tells me that I’m way too focused on me and thats the root of my problem.
Been up all fucking night because I drive over eight hours a night just to make ends meet. So on my days off I’m up and not working so I blog and I write and I compose and I paint.
At the end of the day, or I should say at the beginning of everybody else’s day, I still have no money to buy myself a T-shirt or a trip to Kathmandu. Yeah I want to go to Maui and I want to go to the club to be around hot women with good friends but it aint real.
Maybe all this pain and struggling is so that I can write about it… or maybe not, either way, I don’t really care right now.
I hate my fucking life.
Dating sucks… plus I meet these chicks with 2 and 3 kids …total bullshit.
So much confusion.
Should I play an open mic night tomorrow night and drive an hour and a half in traffic just to get there or should I stay home and work on my song? Or work on my blog or work on my e-books or work on a video or work on myself.
Everything is fucking work …what the fuck.
I’m sick of doing art in the back of my mom’s home. I thought my life was OK. Been living here my whole life. I’m fucking single and I fucking hate it. I’m sick of going back to my bed on the fucking floor and the bathroom is fucking claustrophobic as fuck.
Been here way too long and I feel like going to lift weights really fucking heavy but it never does me any fucking good because all I do is feel heavy afterwards and I can’t even fucking play my guitar.
I spent the whole fucking night not talking to anybody tonight… just fucking working on my blog.
Just thinking about my future, working out plans and seeing what I can do to get out of this fucking mess, this miserable fucking mess that I’ve been in for my whole fucking life.
Check out my song seasick. Its evident in my lyrics. This song explains it perfectly.
Barefoot on a Bus
See my plans were to take my shoes off and get on a bus and travel the world. When I was 18 I wanted to go away and do fucking shows across the fucking East Coast. Only problem is I couldn’t find the fucking band. Who the fuck is going to travel with you across the fucking coast to play for people that don’t even know you’re coming…
They’re called open mics, and they fucking suck. They do nothing for your career.
My plan was to be in a band and tour the world.
Get on a bus barefoot and see the world while I play shows.
Barefoot on a bus.
Traveling around the world.
Those were my dreams.
I don’t even know if they still are.
But I’m living in a very different reality. It fucking hurts. I see my people around me are the same goddamn thing year after year and day after day in and out with the same shit.
Now I can sit here and blame everyone else for all the shit, which I’ve already done for years and It didn’t get me anywhere.
Or I can go out and make my fucking life but therein lies the problem.
You can’t just get on the fucking bus barefoot and tour the fucking world. You need a good song, a manager and a band, and most importantly a Fanbase. If there is nobody listening to you then nobody is going to give you any motherfucking money so you can live off of that shit either.
This blogging thing is a piece of cake to me as far as the writing goes. I could do this all day. All you gotta do is write, write, write til your dead in the eyes. Til you look at yourself and your eyes are so sick that you look so depressed and you make yourself even sicker than what you’re feeling already.
These goddamn pills don’t help
I set goals and the goals barely ever get met. Yeah I meet bullshit goals all the time. The goals I really want to meet are like a an elusive model. Who wants that anyway? Me, …of course.
I wanted to sell 100,000 copies and meet fans all over the world. I wanted to sell my CDs at shows but the fear was too big, or maybe I just suck or maybe it wasn’t meant to be.
I can’t get anybody to come to the gym with me. No one, not one person, not my brother-in-law, not my father, not my sister, not my mother, not my brother, not friends. Not people from the group that I hang out with. Not one person from the shit load of people I know, to go to the fucking gym with me. No one wants to fucking come.
See something woke me up now.
It woke me up a little while ago. I was reading this blog of this beautiful model. She was down here for swim week in Miami Florida. Its a beautiful looking blog. Beautiful pictures and the cleanest blog I’ve ever seen, totally professional.
4 or 5 posts were on these beautiful exotic locations she’s been to, so my first thoughts are why do others…live like this and others aren’t even fucking close? Is it a mindset? I want to know because I really have no fucking clue.
Getting a haircut at some place in New York City and a whole team of people catering to her… I’m jealous. I’m fucking jealous and I hate my fucking life.
Check her out www.gypsyone.com
I even sent her a message, telling her how I liked her blog. Did she respond? Of course not.
Back to the Gym
I’m gonna go do some biceps with my jeans on and If they dont like it they can kiss my fucking ass.
But both you and I know I’m going to have to put my shorts on to get into any gym.
2 min later…
I’m back in my car and all I could think of was my white guitar. It was this image of me sitting down to play a few minutes. Just in case you didn’t pick up on that, I skipped the gym even after I got out of the car.
All this shit about affiliate marketing and making money online and the business side of shit just pisses me off. It makes me fucking blue and it’s a complete turnoff. It always has been.
Im a fucking artist. I create art. Its what I want to do. I create art and you buy. If you want to buy my art fine, and if you don’t fine.
…but I still don’t feel fine.
The only thing that makes me feel fine is my 6 string.
She’s a beautiful white LTD M-1000 with a Floyd Rose floating bridge that gives me fucking problems every fucking time I pick it up.
But still the death of depression… is so sweet… and she’s my depression killer.
I want to be this guy that helps people but really I’m a fucking mess. I want to help people by my music and my writing.
But my songs…they’re just sitting on my desktop.
I just forgot what I wanted to write too. I hate when that fucking shit happens. I’m fucking bipolar. I want to help but I want my reward too.
Am I not entitled to it?
I don’t want to be politically correct. I want to cuss because I’m fucking bipolar and cussing makes me feel good. That’s it. I don’t want to impress anybody. I just want to help. Because the struggle, it’s fucking real.
My depression is real. Other than that, I want it all. I can’t lie. Thats all i gotta say…
Share this with someone who needs it.
For now…there is only 1 thing left to do…It all boils down to confidence…by doing.
I gotta keep doing til I can’t do no more, then I gotta do it all over again tomorrow.
Because I have something to say.
And maybe…just maybe…
one day I’ll be writing to you while I’m…
Barefoot on a Tour Bus.
So Whats the Solution to all this…
I dont have a fucking clue.
What I can do is this:
Keep walking through hell.
Actually get in my car and start touring.
Release more music.
Quit driving and blog and be an artist full time.
I wrote this post 3 wks ago but I didnt have the nuts to post it.
Today after a Spartan workout and klonopin withdrawals I dont even care.
Right now it’s pouring fucking cats and dogs and the sound of the rain is annoying. Every little fucking sound is too.
So really, is there a solution to depression?
The solution is this:
KEEP FUCKING GRINDING’!