Maintaining a Privileged Life Vs. Becoming a Successful Country Music Songwriter

Gabriel Cassidy 

I have always had the utmost respect for the practice of songwriting. Country music, in particular, has always appeared to me to be imbued with exquisite forms of storytelling, strong pathos, and rural ethos. I had always wanted to carve out a spot for myself in the pantheon of brilliant country music songwriters who came before me. However, unfortunately, I have lived a fairly blessed life. I have never known the troubles of economic insecurity, I was raised in the suburbs, all of my girlfriends have been faithful, my dog is alive and well, my car works perfectly, I receive nothing from my parents other than their unconditional love and support, my only interactions with drugs and alcohol have been purely social (I do not use them to escape my past)--you get the idea. With these inhibiting “benefits” that God had ultimately cursed me with, it appeared that my dreams of becoming a country music songwriter were utterly hopeless. Thus, there was only one thing to do. Going forward, I knew I was going to have to do everything in my power to make my life as terrible as possible. 

One may be surprised with just how easy it is to blow all of your money in a single day. After selling my 2018 Saturn and purchasing a barely functioning truck whose year predated the birth of both of my parents, I spent the rest of my savings on: a particular brand of bourbon that contains an alcohol content one could only describe as being sacreligious, unfiltered cigarettes, pen and paper for songwriting, denim clothing, a dying farm out in the country, and crystal meth. Before returning home to my mundane suburban abode, I picked up my best friend Eric, enticing him with an offer I knew he could not refuse. My dog, per usual, greeted me at the end of my driveway when I returned home. I sped up and ran over him. This really hurt as that dog had been a part of my life for many years, and I truly loved him, but sacrifices had to be made.

“Oh my God!” Eric exclaimed. 

“Don’t worry,” I assured him, “It’s all part of the plan.” 

Entering my house, I was immediately met with a troubled inquisitive stare from my wife. 

“Did you run over our dog?” she asked. 

“Yes,” I replied, “but that’s not important right now. You know Eric.” 

“Yes. I know Eric. Hi Eric. I really think we should talk abou–” 

“I want you to leave me for him.” 

“What?” 

“Yes. I love you Carolyn. I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone in my entire life. I would be absolutely lost without you. That is precisely why I need you to leave me for my best friend.” 

I could tell Carolyn was at a loss for how to respond to this request. Eric smiled awkwardly next to me. For my part, I was trying desperately to fight back the tears. Was being a good songwriter really worth all of this, I thought. It was. 

“I wish you both nothing but the best,” I yelped as I turned quickly to the door. I subsequently retreated back to my unholy contraption of a truck. While sitting in the driver’s seat, I realized that my efforts were beginning to pay off. My new horrible life was suddenly producing a creative spark. A tune was produced in my head, accompanied by a host of lyrics. I quickly reached for the pen and paper in the glove compartment–which immediately broke once I opened it–and began to attempt to write the song that was swimming around in my mind. However, I couldn’t do it. No matter how hard I tried, the words were just not making that journey from my brain to the paper. I was at a loss. What else was there to do?, I thought. Oh my

God, my parents, I suddenly realized. My parents still loved me, I needed to change that immediately. Driving–if you could call what my truck was doing driving–over to my parents house, I knew that once I had soiled this relationship, there would be nothing holding me back from my dream. I ran my car over my mother’s garden, slashed the tires of my dad’s Subaru, and set their house on fire. I waited around for them to evacuate so they could see who was responsible. When they finally stumbled out of their now eviscerated home, coughing and perplexed, I made eye contact with them at the front of their driveway, flipped them both off, then ran over and kicked my dad in the groin for good measure. My plan worked perfectly as I received a call the next day from my parents informing me that they were in the process of drawing up a restraining order against me, along with an emphatic assertion from my father that he wished to never see me again. Terrific, I thought, now I can finally get to work. 

Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months, months turned into years, years went back to days, days experimented with becoming months, etc. Basically a lot of time had passed. My ex-wife married and settled down with my ex-best friend Eric. They live somewhere in Arizona and have three kids now. My parents, albeit quite older and slightly demented now, still hold a firm unrelenting hatred for me. The dying farm that I bought has somehow become much worse, my truck basically just withered away, I suffer from chronic alcoholism, and the crystal meth has caused me to lose an absurd amount of weight. My horrendous life has become almost unparalleled. As predicted, I am able to harness this misery and craft some of the greatest country music songs ever written. The singers who performed these hits–I won’t bother naming them because I doubt you’ve heard of them, but your parents probably love them–have all gone on to win Grammys and sell out arenas all over the world. Fortunately, I never saw a cent of that money. I now bide my time on what’s left of the farm, thinking of ways to further ruin my life.

Sometimes I fear that I may be washed up. I’m plagued by worries that my best years are behind me. But deep down, I know there’s still a myriad of stories I have left to tell. I just hope that the cancer diagnosis comes back positive, the world needs my wisdom, and I’m happy to give it to them.