A lot more than a contest...

Are you busy? Can we talk?

Sure.

I got this email. It was from the contest that I entered, the one that I went to a whole lot of trouble for.

Yeah?

I got rejected. I am such a fuckin' failure.

Farmboy...

You know, the hardest part is that there's no peace with it. It's not like I can call up these people and say "So, what didn't you like? Why is my song wrong? Why is my song bad?"

Hey, farmboy...

And it's not like I can even fuckin' cry over this. No, I have to hold everything inside and let it eat away inside me. And it's not like I want to feel better. I seem to want to feel it. (starts to cry, makes himself stop) But I'm too fuckin' hurt to even try to get over it. And I know it's not that big a deal...

It's a big deal to you.

Goddamn it, this is all I have. This is all I fuckin' have. I fuckin' work and work and work at this stuff, this writing songs stuff, and I'm a fuckin' failure. And I think things that I know are ridiculous, but I'm so fuckin' hurt and angry and there's no recourse, you know. My fuckin' best is not fuckin' good enough.

Have you been smoking pot?

No. I am fuckin' sober right now. But I'm gonna smoke pot and I'm gonna drink...

But you don't drink.

I drink sometimes. Fuck. I am such a fuckin' failure.

Farmboy...

I feel like I will never feel any better. I fuckin' never accomplish anything. I'm just...I was just fuckin' born wrong.

Breathe. Take a breath.

I'll breathe in when I smoke pot. Which is fuckin' now.

(Farmboy gets up, goes inside the bathroom of his apartment, puts some marijuana into his pipe, and the smell of smoke fills the apartment. He does some back stretches and arm exercises. He comes back into the living room with a cup of Irish cream.)

You're back.

I'm back.

You stoned?

You betcha. I scraped the pipes and got a whole mess of that black tar stuff which is, like, pure THC. I think it's THC. But I don't remember, 'cause I'm stoned.

Fuck, I also found out today I may not be getting a medical marijuana card. Son of a fuckin' bitch, man. It has been one fucked-up day.

I bet you're going all through your emotions.

Fuckin' A, man, I fuckin' tell you. Fuckin' Alex Chilton died.

Farmboy, c'mon. Let me speak.

Yeah, yeah. Speak.

Damn it, farmboy, I just wish I could go and change everything so you could be the winner. 'Cause I gotta tell you, farmboy, I am so sorry. In your language: I am so fuckin' sorry that you didn't win. Because you should win. You should have at least been one of the ten. It was their fuckin' mistake, farmboy. They are wrong.

Man...I need a fuckin' success so badly.

I know I shouldn't care what others think, but I do.

I am so fuckin' tired of being the loser, you don't know. Motherfucker. I am so fuckin' angry, I am so fuckin' hurt. I feel like I am always going to be poor, always work at a stressful job that doesn't pay well, always be fuckin' mentally ill...

Farmboy...

Let me fuckin' vent, okay? At the risk of sounding selfish, this is about me right now, me and my goddamn stupid little feelings. I'm tired of trying and working and seeing no results anywhere.

This is about a lot more than a contest...

Fuck, man, this is about my fuckin' life. This is what I do: I fuckin' write songs. That's who I am. And to have that fuckin' negated by some people who are judging me. And I fuckin' paid $30 for the fuckin' honor! I can't afford to buy groceries, I'm living on fuckin' Top Ramen and peanut butter!

Fuck, man, all this fuckin' stress, all this fuckin' work. It's never enough, you know, I have to run here and there and it's never fuckin' good enough. No matter what I do. The one thing that I thought might be good enough gets flat-out rejected.

So how's this, man? Am I being self-pitying enough? Am I whining enough for you?

(calmly) Stop it, farmboy. Stop it. Look, do this for me. Humor me. Take five deep, slow breaths. Then try to empty your head and just get into the quiet for a little while.

Uh...okay. 'Cause now I feel bad.

Why?

Because I've been yelling at you, and you didn't do nothin'.

Here, I'll breathe with you.

( The interviewer turns off the light. They both breathe and sit in the quiet. After a while, the Interviewer turns the light back on.)

How was that?

Hard. My mind just chatters away all the fuckin' time.

How are you feeling?

A little calmer. Sort of embarrassed. I feel like I'm gonna feel like I've been beat up after a while. Fuck, it's hard, man. And it's not going to go away real soon. It's gonna hurt for a while. Seriously.

Damn, I'm sorry. This shouldn't have happened.

In another life, maybe. Somebody else's life, for sure.

Hey, here's some Leonard Cohen for you:

And I thank you

I thank you

For doing your duty

You keepers of truth

You guardians of beauty

Your vision was right

My vision was wrong

I'm sorry for smudging

The air with my song...

"A Singer Must Die."

Yep. Written by Leonard Cohen. As sung by Jennifer Warnes. The song is so fuckin' true.

I need to eat something and maybe even take a anti-anxiety drug and go to sleep. For a long long time.

Remember, you can talk to me. Any time.

I know. Thanks.

Take care of yourself, Farmboy.

I'll try.

Be good to yourself.

You too, man. Thanks.