366 days.

Let me set the tone. It's the end of the fucking world.

Too dramatic?

Fine. It's the end of my fucking world.

Tomorrows my 29th birthday and today I quit my job. I have a back-up lined up in the same field but I didn't quit for more of the same. I quit my job to write. To write anything that gets me a modest wage. That's why I'm here. Now. Writing to myself. Writing to you.

The end of the fucking world might be a bit dramatic but I feels how I feels. The only bad thing is that I'm currently unemployed. Let me give you some context.

Until recently, I've been alone in this world. No parents. No support system that I didn't build. Having a stable income was a big part of that. See if I don't pay my bills then my bills don't get paid. No one's coming to the rescue. That's not really a complaint. More an observation.

So why did I do it? Why did I quit a career that I'd spent almost five years building? Maybe I did it for the same reason anyone would.

Cold. Hard. Cash.

And love. Love too.

It's like 60-40.

You figure it out.

I've always written. For as long as I can remember. The first time I tried writing a book I was 9. It was a self-help book and I still remember the first line - "I'll tell you my age at the end of this book but we're to be happy..."

I heard once that if you're good at something you should get paid for it. (don't sue me if that's from a movie - there's a lot of those gems up there). I heard once that you should do what makes you happy. Follow your dreams. To ones own-self be true.

To one's own-self be true.

So why'd I quit my job?

I worked in a call center for awhile. A guy calls up one day and he says

"Hey Mr. Banker - how much is my credit card limit?"

I said, "Just over 10,000. It says you're in Australia."

"Yeah, I'm on vacation."

"Nice. I'm envious."

He goes, "Yeah - someone's gotta be here."


And well my mama told me I'm someone.