Jeff Tweedy is trying to break my heart.

It's a beautiful, sunny day. I'm painting my son's room an impossibly cheery color, listening to Wilco and trying not to cry.

For the last 9 months or so, I have been preparing to leave my fat corporate job and go to work for a non-profit foundation that I adore. I mean, if they made baseball cards of these people, I would have all of them. Framed. I don't think I could have dreamed up a position that would better suit my skill set as well as my passion. They actually created the position just for me! It's a big drop from corporate money to a non-profit salary, but there was no question in my mind that I would rather cut corners and follow my bliss.

Of course, my financial picture has changed somewhat since X left. X is thirty-nine, by the way, and he left me for an eighteen year old girl. And yes, you're damn right I'm bitter. As a matter of fact, I will henceforth refer to him as XS. Extra small, indeed.

Anyway, last week, I met with my financial advisor, who told me in no uncertain terms that I cannot afford to take my dream job unless they're willing to give me significantly more money. I have explained my situation to Dream Job, Inc., and they are looking into it but I'm not holding my breath. Well, actually, I am holding my breath, but I'm not optimistic.

For the last ten years, XS has lived completely off of my largesse. I funded several album projects and an entire recording studio (none of which made a dime), and then paid all the bills so that he could go back to school full time, finish his bachelor's and get a master's degree. After years of waiting for my frog to turn into the prince he kept swearing to God that he was, he finally got a job... and then he left.

Fine, I thought. At least he's done fucking up my life, I thought.

My bad.

"Just shouldn't ever have to be this
hard"

Amen, Brother Tweedy.