I think maybe I’m just feeling sort of weird tonight because I found this old box of photos in the back of the closet. I don’t know if this really counts as a confession, or if I’m just looking for someone to tell me I’m not crazy, but I’ve been sitting here for an hour looking at this one picture of me from... I think it was 1984. I was maybe sixteen or seventeen. I look like a total idiot, honestly. It was the middle of that record-breaking heatwave, nearly a hundred degrees, and there I am in this heavy black velvet blazer and these thick boots. I remember my mom literally crying, begging me to just wear a t-shirt so I wouldn't get heatstroke at the county fair, but I wouldn't budge. I think I wanted to suffer. I wanted everyone to see how much I could endure for the sake of... well, I don't even know what. An image, I guess. It sounds kind of funny when I say it out loud, but it’s making me feel sort of sick to my stomach now. I remember the sweat dripping down my back and the way the cheap purple dye from the lining started staining my skin. I felt so SUPERIOR because I was the only one "brave" enough to stay in character while everyone else was in shorts and tank tops. My dad just kept looking at me with this expression—not even mad, just sort of exhausted and confused. I think I spent my whole life trying to maintain that same kind of distance. I’ve always been the "creative" one, the artist who couldn't be bothered with practical things like a savings account or a 401k. I guess I thought if I just stayed true to that brooding, misunderstood version of myself, everything would just... work out. But now I’m fifty-nine and I’m looking at my bank balance and then looking at this photo, and it just feels like one long line of bad choices. I’ve spent forty years picking the heavy velvet jacket every single time. I chose the "pure" artistic path instead of the steady job, and I let my wife handle all the boring stuff like mortgages and insurance while I hid in my studio being deep. We’re divorced now, of course. I think she just got tired of waiting for me to grow up. My kids think I’m some kind of eccentric character, but I can tell they don't really respect me. Not really. They see me as someone who never quite figured out how to be a person. I feel like I’ve done something wrong, but I don't know how to fix it at this stage. I’m approaching sixty and I’m still living in this drafty apartment with nothing to show for it but a bunch of paintings that probably aren't even that good. I keep thinking about that day at the fair, how I almost passed out near the gravitron because I was too proud to take off a coat.