Bad Depression-era Bildungsroman

I just got off work and spent the money I earned in tips getting into the dance hall for the last couple of numbers--mostly waltzes, not really my style. Then when the dances were over I sat staring dreamily at the stage as the musicians were packing up their instruments. The girl that I came to meet stood me up. (Not really, but that's what it felt like.) I slowly eased off my threadbare dancing shoes, the leather soles worn thin from years of hootenannies at dance halls like this one, the Grey Eagle in Old West Asheville, down by the river. I feel like I'm in the middle of a bad depression-era bildungsroman or maybe a künstlerroman depending on how you look at my life so far.

I'm tired. I'm going to go to bed.