Music Ruined My Life

I'll come out and admit that I have some deeply-rooted psychological issues when it comes to organization and completeness. Instead of taking the proper supervisory route, my parents instead dismissed my early signs of obsessive compulsiveness as "he was a weird little kid" and let me loose on the world.

I have never taken a break when it comes to the meticulous organization of my toys. When hard drives became capable of storing thousands of albums for a reasonable fee, I took it upon myself to not only take my digital music collection to a disgusting size, but also to meticulously organize and tag said data. Many a late nights during my teenage years were spent ripping CDs, properly capitalizing song names, and ensuring that a uniform bitrate was used throughout my...

Over the past two years, I've pretty much been writing every day, whenever the opportunity presents itself. Whether I'm on the terlet, on a break at the dayjobz, at home after I put the kids to bed and changed the wife's batteries, writing is one of those things I do that makes me happy. It's a release on par with the idea of life-long continuous masturbation, yet far less of an inconvenience on the rest of my life than a responsibility such as abusing my genitals around the cock.

Where my guitar used to fill every free, non-driving, non-working moment of my life, writing has kind of nudged that heavy and loud ass piece of wood into my closet, where it is now covered in my wife's clothes and my many many druid robez. I never intended my guitar to take a backseat, but how can you...