Each week when I sit down to write one of these things, I tell myself it’s going to be a mix of personal radio history, a few semi-inspirational takeaways, and the kind of authenticity you can’t fake—even though, ironically, that kind of statement always sounds a little fake.
The authenticity part is what I chase, mostly because I assume you, like me, have a built-in bullshit detector that goes off the second something feels even slightly performative. Which, to be fair, writing a public essay already kind of is. But we push through anyway—like trying to be raw on purpose, which somehow makes it less raw.
Usually, the topic reveals itself midweek, after I’ve already published the last one—because apparently, my brain likes to work on a 6-day delay. I treat this space like a journal with a press pass. A brain dump. A place to file the thoughts that keep circling my head like TSA agents at the end of a shift—tired, but still suspicious.
This week, though? A challenge. Because life, in all its spectacular timing, decided to stage a one-act play called “This Is Why You Can’t Have Nice Things.”
First came taxes—because nothing says “you're crushing it” like coughing up an ungodly amount of money for the privilege of running side hustles. And here's the thing most people don’t understand: when you run your own business, you’re the employer. That means the taxes that would normally be quietly siphoned off by payroll? Yeah, those are now your problem. You get the full pleasure of writing the check and preparing the spreadsheet.
And without fail, every time I mention I owe around $5,000 a year, someone pipes up with, “Well, did you write off XYZ?” As if I just stumbled into entrepreneurship last week and hadn’t been working in radio long enough to know that, yes—subscriptions to music services, magazines, even the occasional deep-dive into pop culture weirdness can count as show prep. Trust me, I know how deductions work. I’ve got an entire notebook labeled “TAX DEDUCTIONS” that reads like a scavenger hunt for the IRS.
It’s not that I hate paying taxes—it’s that I hate finding the deductions. The process of scrubbing through every single banking transaction in Excel looking for that one Canva charge I forgot to label makes me want to immediately stand up and pee just to avoid doing it. It’s not a financial burden—it’s an existential one.
Then came the storage unit price hike—because apparently they’ve discovered a new way to monetize both nostalgia and anxiety. I braced for it. I knew it was coming. I even budgeted for it, which in adulthood feels less like financial planning and more like pre-disappointment with a spreadsheet.
What I didn’t expect was a $200 increase. That’s not a price adjustment—that’s a psychological experiment. That’s not an increase. That’s extortion with a rolling door.
So I did what every adult dreads: I went down there in person. Because in today’s world, if you want a fair rate on anything, you have to show up, make eye contact, and prove you're not a bot.
The guy at the desk looked like me if I were trapped in a job that required khakis and surrender. Mid-40s. Kind eyes. Dead inside. I explained my problem. He said he wasn’t the one who ran the place and that the guy who did had gone to the VA for a heart issue, which made me feel bad for about five seconds—until I remembered I was being charged $300 a month to store seasonal depression and broken dreams.
“I need this fixed,” I said.
“What would you like to pay?” he asked.
“Not $300,” I told him. “That’s absurd. For that price, I could rent a dumpster in South Phoenix with bad lighting and a better vibe.”
He suggested a smaller unit or moving to a different facility altogether. I told him I wasn’t interested in playing relocation Tetris every six months. He said he understood and promised to leave a task for the manager.
The manager never called.
But a woman did. I explained everything again because modern customer service now requires reliving your grievances like a trauma cycle. She said she could submit a rate reduction request to corporate—which in my experience is just a ceremonial ritual with no guaranteed outcome, like sending a prayer into the sky and hoping the algorithm replies.
Then she hit me with the kicker: the new “reduced” rate she’d request? It was $30 more than what I’m currently paying.
At that point, I had to laugh. I mean, what kind of upside-down math is that? I asked for less and got more—in the wrong direction. It’s like ordering a salad and getting billed for steak.
The whole thing made me feel like this is just how life works in the city: they lure you in with the intro rate, then act surprised when you flinch at the bait-and-switch. It’s like getting the girlfriend experience for the first three months, and then suddenly you're just another guy in line holding a number and a credit card.
I told her I’d think about it, but the truth is I’ll probably end up dragging everything back to my condo and cramming it into whatever corners still exist. She closed the call by saying, “We don’t want to see you go,” as if my bins of tangled extension cords, skateboards, and midlife storage denial were somehow vital to the vibe of their overpriced concrete closet.
And look, it’s not her fault. But in that moment, I felt ridiculous for paying storage fees on things that probably didn’t need storing in the first place. The whole situation just felt like a very expensive way to delay having to make decisions about my own clutter.
Last year, I had this grand plan to put my place up for sale. I was tired of living in a condo that looked like a Ukrainian war zone, and I wanted to live somewhere with actual trees—and, ideally, a structure that didn’t feel like it was made entirely out of drywall and passive aggression.
So I cleared things out and shoved them into storage to make the place look less chaotic, more showroom-ready. A little space here, a little “aspirational buyer energy” there. It was a real HGTV moment—until it wasn’t.
Now I look back and wonder: What the hell was I thinking?
I could’ve condensed it. I could’ve boxed it. I probably could’ve sold half of it. But who’s buying old cell phone charging cords from 2014? And yet I keep them—because I’m that guy who mutters, “I know I have a cord for that…” and then spends 45 minutes digging through a box like a raccoon in a RadioShack dumpster.
So there I was—proud of myself for almost resolving a crisis by doing nothing, and then the house decided to throw its hat into the ring.
But just when I thought the week had played all its cards, the garbage disposal pulled the classic sneak attack—the kind that’s both completely unexpected and entirely predictable. I was doing dishes, feeling vaguely accomplished after surviving tax season and accepting my fate with the storage unit, when I opened the cabinet to grab some cleaner and noticed... wetness. Not just a little. Enough to make my stomach drop in that special way that only comes when you realize your home has been secretly betraying you for who knows how long.
And of course, my immediate reaction was to spring into action like a contestant on a timed game show—ripping everything out from under the sink like speed would somehow reverse the leak or lessen the damage. As if the disposal would see my hustle and say, “You know what? My bad. I’ll fix myself.”
Now, I could've called a plumber. Paid someone $100 an hour to come in, wrinkle their nose at my DIY attempts, and charge me a premium for a job I’ve done before. But why outsource what you can fumble-fuck through yourself? So, off to Home Depot I went. One trip, one garbage disposal, and two hours later—including the time to dig out my tools, wrestle the old unit out, and convince the new one to cooperate—I had it sorted. Honestly, the whole process was so straightforward it made breathing look like a complex skill.
And just when I thought the financial hemorrhaging had clotted, my HOA chimed in with a $600 monthly special assessment—for the next two years.
Now, full disclosure: I’m on the HOA board. I know exactly where that money’s going. It’s earmarked for the stairs, the decks, and general property improvements. I voted for it. I understand the value. But understanding doesn’t soften the blow when you’re already working a night gig in radio and side hustling during the day. At this point, my lifestyle is flirting dangerously with indentured servitude—with a parking spot.
Was I happy about paying an extra $600 a month? No. But there really wasn’t another choice. The decks are original wood and actively terrifying. Watching someone climb them is like watching that scene in The Money Pit, where the staircase starts shaking and Tom Hanks launches himself toward the top step like it’s a cliff-hanger rescue mission—right before the entire thing collapses behind him.
So it’s either $600 a month on top of already egregious HOA dues… or someone falls through the wood and gets impaled by a rusty nail because some genius thought slapping new boards onto 30-year-old rotted lumber was a long-term solution.
You think I’m joking. I’m not. That exact fix has been suggested—multiple times—by someone who apparently thinks a handyman can just hammer optimism into rotten wood.
And just when I thought I’d heard it all, someone at the last HOA meeting seriously asked if it was possible to tear down and rebuild the stairs and decks in one day—like the Titanic was already tilting and someone on the call wanted to know if we could patch it up with Flex Seal.
I just sat there blinking, trying to process the fact that people were more pissed about a month-long relocation than they were about potentially getting speared by infrastructure.
And for the record, I hate being on the HOA board. I don’t do it because I get my rocks off pissing off neighbors or playing Property Police. I do it because I want the place to not look like it’s slowly collapsing into a dusty, sun-bleached version of Jumanji.
And you know what’s funny? That $600 assessment was originally going to be $800—until someone realized they’d blown the budget math. So sure, $600 feels like a discount… but I had mentally braced for an extra $300 a month. Somehow, this makes it worse.
And being on the board? It doesn’t give me power. It gives me anxiety. It makes my dick itch.
By Tuesday night, I was done. Fully tapped. This week felt like money got food poisoning and shat itself from both ends. And amidst this financial fiasco, I was also trying to carve out time to see my parents—who I haven’t visited in almost a month. I aim for monthly visits, but weeks like this make that goal feel like a cruel joke. Not for lack of desire—just the sheer chaos of keeping everything from imploding.
And all of it—every last soggy, financially-draining minute of it—unfolded between Monday morning and Tuesday afternoon. At this rate, I half expect President Trump to slap a 49% tariff on my sanity, effective immediately.
And yet, every night, I still showed up for my shift. Cracked the mic. Read off messages from people furious they hadn’t received their concert ticket confirmation emails—like that was the great injustice of the week. Meanwhile, I’m standing there trying to sound cool while silently Googling whether swollen particle board under a sink means I’m officially screwed.
Somewhere else, there’s a starving kid in Africa filtering goat piss from a river with a piece of his shirt because survival doesn’t have a budget.
Perspective’s a bitch like that.
This kind of writing doesn’t just ooze out like a busted garbage disposal.
It takes time—time to dig, rewrite, cut the dead weight, and wrestle the chaos into something readable.
If it hit for you, here’s how to keep the train rolling:
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And if you know someone else duct-taping their adulthood together—
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—Shannon
