So here’s the new deal

Guess what, chumps.  I quit my job.  Yep.  I’m taking my life’s balls in my hand and running with them.

And none other than Taylor Swift is totally FEELING ME:

Wait. Why did I quit? Fuck you for asking, we should ALL be quitting our jobs.  Seriously.  Aren’t you just miserable?  Like every fucking day?  I know almost every person I just left behind sure as hell is.

Or are they? I think maybe not, in fact.  Like there might be some amount of pressure to act as though one is miserably unhappy with one’s life when in fact one is fairly satisfied with where one finds oneself.  Which I guess would explain how so many people spend their whole lives working insanely awful jobs in incredibly demeaning environments.  Can you tell how I feel about the place I just left?

I’d like to share an audio file of what I’m leaving behind, if I may (click the arrow) [sc_embed_player fileurl=”″]

That’s been my constant companion for the last 9.5 months.  My (ex)roommate has a lung condition and zero self awareness.  It was hell.  It’s over now? Yes.

So, my quitting raises three questions: 1. WHY? and 2. WILL I DIE? and 3.WHAT NOW?


A couple weeks ago I had a session with my therapist regarding this decision of mine to quit.  After a little awkward giggling about how nervous slash excited I was to be quitting, a dam burst in my chest and I started bawling like… like a newly-born calf who hasn’t had a chance to feed from its mother’s teat yet.  Like 3 hours with no milk.  Like scary times what’s happening why can’t I stop crying stuff.

I haven’t gone back to that emotional place, but what I was able to snag before I slammed the blast doors shut on it was something along the lines of: I’ve been forcing myself into a farce of the normal responsible life partially as a form of rebellion against my parents.  A self-obliterating rebellion consisting in something along the lines of, “well fuck you for not supporting my amazingness, I’ll show you by being a greyish-drab drone who wastes his life at the grind.”

But that’s the deep emotional blah blah and of course it makes no sense to you.  The practical reasoning would be this: My job path was heading in a direction that doesn’t jibe with my self image or what I can be happy doing forever.  Plus, I felt like I have a huge well of potential that’s going to waste.  And I don’t want to be 60 looking back at how I didn’t take any chances.  The trigger was an event at work.  My boss started asking people around me how well they thought I was handling the job and fishing for damaging gossip.  And then he took me to lunch and started giving me some “advice” on how to handle the idiots and backstabbers I worked with every day.

Except I was already doing it all.  So he kinda petered out with the advice.  And then started monitoring all my interactions with the “clients” I was working with.  Surprise surprise I was a model of polite professionalism.  I passed.  But fuck that.  As far as I could determine, this was precipitated by a couple of very shitty people who decided to toss me under the bus.  I’ve since seen it happen to a coworker who is hands down the most accommodating laid back editor I’ve ever met.  One can literally not win in that world.  Good riddance.  BUT:


Nah.  I got some savings and low monthly expenses.  Plus I guess I’ll find some freelance later.  Which leads to


I’m writing my motherfucking memoir.  It’s going to be amazing.  You will probably read it and go, “Oh holy shit this guy deserves a gazillion monies.” In the meantime I’m going to be attending various literary performance events throughout the city.  I’ll post some reviews maybe here.  And mmmmmmaybe blog more frequently and more interestingly.  Maybe I’ll see one of my two readers out there.