I read this, by John Darnielle (Mountain Goat, proficient guitarist), and thought, This is something someone with a child could never write. I felt simultaneous very sad and very happy about that. Make of it what you will:
My wife has gone to California to visit her family and she won't be back for a week, and so I'm parked semi-permanently in front of the stereo, swilling vodka and chasing it down with hot black coffee. The music-at-high-volumes marathon lets up just long enough for twice-daily reruns of Law & Order, all of which I've seen at least three times each and can practically recite from memory; any remaining time is spent either writing songs about speed freaks who've locked themselves inside their south Pomona motel rooms and aren't going to come out unless they absolutely, positively have to go get more Cheetos, or constructing little handmade fetishes that pay tribute to the tenacity with which these extremely skinny people chase down their elusive dreams.