Obituary for the part of you that died when you took that office job

Following a sudden bout of Selling Out to the Man, it is with a broken heart we announce the passing of Your Dream To Start A Metal Band Called Thunder Gut.

The Dream was pronounced dead after you watched your cubicle-mate eat a caesar salad with his hands, in full view of an actual fork.

Born in 1992, Thunder Gut was a dream spawned of your love of '80s hair metal, and sharp air guitar skills. Even before you purchased a guitar, you'd spend hours practicing, jumping off of couches, and windmilling your arms around your belly like Slash.

During a jam session in Grade 11, you and your buds did a riff so tight, so epic, so impossibly metal that when it was over, you all looked at each other and said in unison, "we have to start a band."

The band was formed, although there was some dispute over whether you should name it Thunder Gut, or KISS of the Dragon Queen. The dispute would inevitably dissolve the band altogether, long before you'd even written your first song, or played your first show.

While Thunder Gut passed in corporeal form, The Dream remained alive well through college. At many a dorm room party, you would take out your guitar and play your signature song Thunder Gut, which was not only logically confusing due to your band name, but probably some manner of copyright infringement due to its nearly identical resemblance to the song Thunderstruck by AC/DC.

After college, you tried to revive the dream by getting a job at HMV. Maybe selling t-shirts in homage to your heroes was a first step toward becoming them.

When HMV died, the dream of Thunder Gut took a turn for the worse. Without a job, and with three quarters of a Liberal Arts degree, there was only one path to choose — sell out to the man. Get a job in an office. Just for a minute. Just take the paycheques so you can save up to get that touring van. Hire a roadie or two. Buy a Strat. You rolled your eyes audibly when someone asked you how your weekend went. You'd yawn visibly when folks brought up the weather. But slowly, you began to cave in.

"Yes, Jeff, it was humid as balls this weekend," you'd find yourself saying. The Thunder Gut dream made you want to clasp your hands around your mouth in horror.

You'd spend hours curating the perfect Spotify playlists to match any situation. Once, when sending Jeff a "This Sure Is Boring" playlist based on a meeting request, you accidentally hit "Reply All." You figured you were done for. But you were met with winky face emojis and many knowing smiles.

"Mondays, right?" your colleagues would say. "You should be a DJ!" And a new dream was born.

The Dream of Thunder Gut is survived by A Need to Whip Out an Acoustic Guitar at Every Party and A Fondness for Temporary Swedish Furniture.

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