One year. 365 days. Scratch that, 366 days. Apparently last year was a leap year, and maybe hat’s why it felt so long? Or it could have been that one year ago, I finished my last gig.

I haven’t worked in a year.

I mean, I’ve done things around the house. I’ve done yard work, and painted, and done some carpentry. Bit of roofing. I’ve done enough that I’ve messed up my back, and buggered my elbow, and hit myself on the head, and mildly electrocuted myself….

But I haven’t been paid in a year. According to our culture, I’m not a productive member of society. I’m a leech, a drain on the system, lazy, sucking the government teat. I should be pulling myself up by my bootstraps, working on a side hustle, or whatever the fuck it is people tell themselves so they can be shitty to people on unemployment.

One year.

Now, I won’t deny that there are people who choose to live off benefits. But I can’t fathom living like that. I can’t wait to get back to work, to live out of a suitcase, sleep in different beds and collect room keys and work 18 hours and fall asleep with echoes of the band and the crowd and the hum of the bus in my ears. I miss spending months working on one show. I miss the collaboration, the frustration, and the relief of opening night.

And don’t tell me I should have gone and done something else, or done something with my time. Apparently it’s hard to be motivated or focus when you’re mildly depressed because the last twenty-four years of your life feel like a bit of a waste.

Similar to the last year, I suppose.

Anyway. Happy anniversary, me. I’m having a drink.