It’s unfair to claim that fat people want to be fat. But it isn’t totally untrue. Believe me, I know. The saddest day of my life was when I lost the weight I had aimed to lose and I looked at myself and realized that, even thin, I was no different, no happier. And I was somehow less significant, smaller. I couldn’t feel my own weight, my frame was an indication of all the celebrations I had avoided, was a sign of how I had bought into the beauty myth and come out the other side merely thin, not beautiful.

But you can’t really describe this to people who don’t understand it on a cellular level. It’s what made real punks punks back in the day. Sure, tons of kids had mohawks, even today there are more green haired kids than there were in the 80s, but the hair and the chains and all that isn’t what made you punk. Being ugly, that was punk. Sleeping on the floor of your classroom during a final, that was punk. Being bisexual, spreading rumors about your friends worshipping satan, playing in a band that sucked and didn’t want to get better, that was all punk.

And there is a way that being punk makes you feel. Strong. Stronger than anyone. There is playing by the rules and there is winning within the rules, but winning because you mock the game is just pure power. It’s smart-ass power, sure, but the more people who shook their heads at you, the further outside the power structure you could find yourself, the more in control of your own life you are.

Anyway, that smart-ass thing is something I have in large doses. But lately, it has been occurring to me just how immature it is. I can still offend with the best of them, I can still be snarky and humiliating when the occassion demands it, but it has become apparent to me that it’s a useless road to go down.

My failures as a professional are the punkest thing about my existence now, and it isn’t right. I do two things very well. I am an excellent studio musician and an excellent actor. It has only dawned on me recently how actually good I am at these two things. And in both cases, I could be making money.

When did I get all punk about it? I don’t remember. I don’t remember when I started punking auditions, going in and telling the casting people they should use someone else, not preparing purposefully, mocking powerful people every time I got the chance. But I did it. For years. In LA, I hated every moment of everything I did.

Now, failure just feels like failure. Punks don’t get to have homes and raise kids. They just don’t. The recordings I begged for and was promised back in September are not going to happen. I haven’t put together the Lucretia packet to get the possible tour together. Some of this is my fault, some isn’t, but the pain reaches back and colors every missed opportunity over the past 15 years, since the day I found out I wasn’t going to graduate and I thought it was funny.

So now, I have to succeed. I have to. I have to leave my bleach stained jean jacket at the house and make work happen for me. I will not ever find myself having lucked into money, and I want jordana’s children and our home to *exist*.

She finally turned to me yesterday and said, as nicely as she could, “I just can’t talk about it anymore. If you’re gonna do it, then do it. Just do it, or don’t, but don’t talk about it anymore.” Man, hearing her say that, I want to grab that punk by the throat and drown him.