Phew, that was close.
Ever have a job that's oh, not really working out?
And by "not working out", I mean "Swallowing-your-very-soul-in-its-entirety-like-happy-hour-shots-in-hell?".
Yeah, that kind of "Not working out".
Hey, it happens.
Like, say you started a small business. Like if, you were a writer.
For instance.
And maybe you didn't make the best business decisions.
Like not having a dedicated client list.
Or maybe you partner with some guy in PA who writes children's books and says you're exactly what his company needs but doesn't pay you for six months and you're thinking "Uh oh, this is bad" but can't believe he'd never pay you and then not only doesn't he pay you but he says he's changed his mind and won't use you.
Except, funny thing~he just spent six months using you like a rolled up fifty in the VIP section in a Miami club at 3am.
Then say you kinda went, oh what's the word for it again...oh, yeah~bankrupt. And your credit cards are so maxed out they actually ignite in to flames when you try and buy a hot dog and coke for $2.50.
So you get a job.
And within months you realize "Uh oh. Something's fishy here...".
Like maybe it turns out to be the job from Hell.
And every time you have to deal with "Management" it leaves you feeling like you just licked radioactive waste from your fingertips.
But hey, you've managed to put the flames out on your credit cards.
At least to the point where they're not showing your picture next to your Discovery card on America's Most Wanted, asking "if you see this man, call...".
But remember, this is still only act 1 in "Its my life", which means you're in for a big, unexpected plot twist.
Like having a baby.
So you lose a year to not sleeping.
Add another oh, 6-8 months of just being plain, fcuking miserable and bitter about the soul-sucking job.
And the next thing you know, the closest you're coming to solid food at lunch is the lime wedge on your margarita glass.
Tip: lunch-hour drink specials totally rock.
And one day you look across the bar and see this old guy.
He's about 75. And he's drinking highball glasses full of gin.
And he stumbles out, half carried by one of the busboys who winks at you 'cause you're now a regular and you go back to your drink, and wonder "WTF am I doing with my life"?
And you order another one.
Then one day you get it. I am the old guy stumbling out. Not yet, but I'm getting there.
And at some point, he had dreams. Or a dream. Or a passion for something.
So you skip "lunch" for a few days. And instead, you sit at a diner with a pad of paper and you write.
And after a few days of drinks that only have lime in them because diet coke without lime sucks, you have an idea.
And its new and old and familiar and terrifying and exciting and it knows who you are and you can't ignore the fact the idea lives in your marrow.
What if...I was a writer?.
And the next day even while people at work try to beat you down because they're so angry about their own life the only way they can feel good about themselves is to make others around them as angry and bitter as they are, well, even while they're trying to make you feel miserable you can't stop smiling because in half an hour you're going to lunch to sit by yourself, in a booth, in a quiet diner.
And write.
And one day you see a different image of yourself.
You're not 75 and gin-pickled in your own skin and stumbling out of a cheap Mexican restaurant at 2pm. On a Tuesday.
You're sober. And for a living...you write.
And every day you go to the diner and write.
And every night after your daughter goes to bed you write.
And you get a client for a writing job. And then one more.
And one day a director calls you at work on your cell phone and he needs a music video written in one hour for his label and when will you send it to him?
And you think "I can't do it". And you hear people in your office slowing tearing at each other's dignity.
And you download the MP3, play it as low as you can, record it to your cell phone, throw in your ear piece and sit in the bathroom for 20 minutes listening to the track over the sound of people flushing toilets next to you then you run back to your computer and write a music video.
And it goes to #11 on TRL.
Then you come up with an even better idea.
You decide if you can write in a toilet-stall, writing at home should be 100x easier.
But "I Wrote A Top 11 Video In A Toilet Stall" is too long for a business card.
But this fits pretty well: www.conceptdna.net
And one day...you give notice. You realize its never the right time.
Like Thelma And Louise, you just go for it. Okay, bad example they drove off a cliff.
But hey, for the two hours prior to punching the gas pedal they totally redeemed themselves.
And that final shot was freeze frame, so maybe they were just driving off an overpass.
Turns out the 75 year old guy used to hang out with some baseball player named Joe.
DiMaggio.
My last day at Hell-Job? I stopped by the bar, one for the road.
Sat down next to "Old guy's" chair, which was empty.
I nodded to the chair, asked the bartender "Where's our friend?".
He just shook his head, "No". I guess Old Guy finished his drink.
So, a little free advice. If the place where you usually have "Lunch" can get your drink on the counter before you get your coat off and before you actually order a drink, change bars.
Better yet, change careers.
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