Don’t get me wrong, I adore being face to face with my children, grandchildren, and a handful of family, but I’m spent. Mentally, physically, and even spiritually, my metaphorical hibernation beckons my return.

I’ve perfected the art of ghosting over the last seven years, and it’s pleasant. The unfortunate side effect is that I tend to get a bit under the weather when I’m suddenly around large groups of humans. Thanks, pandemic. You did all the hard work for me!

The original scheme was to come here and recreate what I’d done in my hometown all those years ago, but social media has made that feat nearly impossible. Also, I no longer want that. Society in America has split down the middle and no one knows how to keep their own bullshit to themselves in 2025. Even at open mic, someone will occasionally grab the microphone to tell the story of their incarcerated redemption. Prison? Yeah, I’ve seen it all go down with my own eyes. They ask for a bible when they’re booked in, and ask for the trash can when they book out. Why does damn-near every event in North Texas turn into a prayer meeting?

Also, women order a ton of Summer Sausage on commissary, but you never see empty Summer Sausage packages in their trash. Inquiring minds don’t want to know.

My everything wants to curl up in a little ball and hide for the remainder of the year. Instead, I’m needed as the truck-guy to transport our Christmas tree home. After that, the remainder of the house may decorate to their heart’s content! I’ll be using my invisibility cloak to stay out of the way.

I practice my music all week long, and then can’t seem to bring myself to perform for others on Saturday afternoons.

Stages are overrated, and so are most who gather around them. It’s like a more talented strip-joint where tits take a back seat to thrice-told tales and songs about college dorm experiments with your bestie. If you’ve heard about one “unforgivable” orgasm, you’ve heard about them all. What else are young musicians going to write about? They haven’t even lived long enough to set up their own romantic betrayal scenario.

Sing a song about trust funds, White Claw hangovers, and date-rape? No thank you.

Breathe.