Or at least that's how I felt when I woke up Friday morning. I have this habit of not taking things seriously when I should, but then getting SO stressed out about small unimportant things, that I lose sleep.
Thursday, I took the day off work because I had to go downtown to attend a meeting about my upcoming gig. If I didn't go to the meeting, I couldn't play, it's that simple. The meeting was called for 6 PM and was only suppose to last around half an hour. I had a guitar lesson to teach from 3:30 - 4:30, and I knew that I'd be cutting it close, but at 4:30, I took off and ran out to Yonge Street to catch the bus.
Long story short, I got stuck in rush hour traffic and at 6:10 had just made it to Queen and Yonge. There was a bunch of construction and I admittedly underestimated how far down the road Douvercourt was. At 6:30 I was still a solid 15 minutes away from the venue and that's when I got a call from the promoter. I explained the situation and although I had missed the meeting, one of the staff members waited for me to give me the paper work and tickets. When I finally got there it was a quarter to 7 and I was beyond stressed and aggravated. I got all the flyers and tickets and everything else which took about a minute and I was sent on my way. 2.5 hours of travelling in each direction for that. Needless to say, I was pissed. Why couldn't they just mail it all to me. Ugh.
So it's now 7:00 and getting dark, and I'm standing alone on the sketchy corner of Queen and Douvercourt waiting for a streetcar/bus/anything that will help me get home, when some big Persian gangster guy whistles at me. I turn to look at him. He winks, throw a gang hand sign, and blows a kiss at me. At this point, I nearly shat myself in fear.
9:30 and I'm finally home, eating dinner and panicking that I have to be at work at 9:15 AM. Of course everything worked out just fine, but I really need to stop sweating the small stuff.
"Hey suburbia, hey suburbia, hey suburbia, we're in love with you."
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