I’m a struggling musician with ambitions to someday extricate "struggling" from my title. I’ve spent the last couple of years working in bars, where my days have been filled with regulars avoiding the office and the nights have been filled with college students avoiding sobriety. I drink. Sometimes a little, but usually more than that. I smoke. Quite a bit. Occasionally, I sleep. The rest of the time: I make music. Somedays I get gigs. Somedays I don’t. Somedays I play gigs for the unwilling listeners that live above and below me. Somedays I just scratch the tuft of hair on my chin and think about the music I want to play. But it’s what I do. For good, bad, or worse, it’s my identity - and if, when I’m 74 and wheezing on another cigarette and downing another beer - I’m still a struggling musician, I’m alright with that. Just as long as I’m still playing music. For me. For you. Or for the people above and below me.
