Caretaking.

I gave up my dream of becoming a professional violinist a long, long time ago. 

For many years I harbored this surreal fantasy of earning the respect of orchestral musicians the world over, leveraging my decades of arduous practice to impress even the most discriminating of them. 

Like with any other overblown expectation, reality stepped in and bitch slapped me like an incensed pimp owed 3 weeks of back pay. 

It reminded me of my ineptitude with every arthritic bolt of pain and with every moment of confusion over how exactly to complete the perfect chromatic run. I sold any aspiration I had of being a professional musician and opted for this life, instead. 

Sadly, I didn't make much of a profit. 

Things aren't so bad, though. Not as bad as they could have been, I guess. 

Sometimes when the pressures of conforming to your own standards becomes too much, the best thing to do is to plainly stop giving a fuck. I remember the first time this happened - I was dating a woman who worked the Sephora counter at the local mall, giving free make up lessons to insecure, clueless hags with way too much time on their hands and absent husbands who wouldn't care if their wives looked prettier, anyway. 

Her name was Lori. She expected a lot from me, probably because her ex boyfriend was a Special Forces operative who could maker her cum with barely a hard stare. Nearing 40, she convinced herself that I was her way to an effortless lifestyle of working part time and getting to blow ten grand a month of my money on whatever trivial bullshit her cramped brain could convince her she needed. 

She asked me once, "David, how long until I can move in with you and make you breakfast every morning?", to which I responded, "I don't know Lori, when could you afford your share of my three thousand dollar a month mortgage?". 

I guess that was kind of a callous response...but it set a precedent. 

Lori left me because she thought I didn't care enough for her. Bullshit. I cared plenty. What I didn't care for was encroachment with an ulterior motive more obvious than the crows feet on the faces of what Lori called her 'clients'. 

Sure. 'Clients'. 

I haven't played a violin in months. I can't be bothered, really. I have more pressing engagements. Since relieving myself of the dream of performing Mozart's Concerto Number 5 in A for international audiences, I've moved on to something a lot easier to master. 

Selling black tar heroin. 

Now I get up around 6 am, go for a swim, put on a pot of coffee and wait for my phone to ring. My home phone. Not a cell phone. Cell phones are why lesser dealers get nabbed and canned. 

If it's 'blue', pickup is at 2pm. Reds are noon. If it's 'equipped', it's sealed in waterproof tape. If it's 'cornered' it's intentionally light on weight so whoever is reselling it can cut for profit. If it's 'dog tired', there won't even be a pickup and the call is simply a ploy. 

Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I stuck with drawing a bow for a living. Or if I let Lori further invade my life. 

Or if I switched from Raisin Bran to Rice Chex. 

Whatever. Life is better now. It has to be. 

Gotta go. 

Phone's ringing.