… Like a broke bitch on a mission.
If ever I were chosen to lead a TEDx talk (painfully unlikely), my subject matter would be the power of conviction, a topic that has come up so often for me lately.
I’m convinced that I’m a certifiable force of nature. I’m sure my friends and family can attest to that, for good or bad. I remember bleeding out my sanity during my AP exams in high school to get the scores I needed for university; writing my dissertation in one night and barely managing to get it in on time, receiving decent marks given the circumstances; and now, in the magical world of adulthood, I think I’m finally wading my way past the flotsam of bullshit that seemed to be magnetically drawn to me. Last year, I wanted a job for Christmas. Done. This year, I wanted a new job for my 25th birthday. Missed the mark by a week, but I did it! And sure, my [now] ex-boss pulled a Sybil on me when he found out and did a rush-job damnatio memoriae on my poor, unsuspecting ass, but the accelerated start at my new workplace made that scathing ducttape-waxing of unseemly, unwanted old job so worth it. I’m stupid-happy with my new company, and it’s only been three days.
I prepped to give my notice by playing this song and this song only, on loop, for three hours:
So, I don’t know if this blog will wither and wilt—just shy of its first birthday—due to the fact that I now have considerably less to bitch about, or because the social media regulations at new company might force me to pull the plug on my baby (for which I have a morbid sense of pride), but we’ll just have to wait and see.
When I broke the news on Facebook that I finally managed to switch jobs, I think even my most adoring trolls were like, “WTF?” I’m sure there was, on a certain level, some doubt that I’d ever pull myself out of (what I affectionately call) my ‘Chris Brown’ relationship with my former employer (I for one still can’t believe that I actually did it!) but… hell hath no fury!
I admit that the most frightening thing about me is probably that I ‘find a way.’ It’s great, it’s something I’m vocally very proud of, but it’s frightening, the sheer power of my will. Re-reading some of my first posts for this blog, I stumbled upon a passing remark I made about David Beckham and wanting him to give me a job. That was back at the end of last October; by February, I asked him in person for a job (and he narc’ed on me with his manager #ingrate). I’m impressed yet taken aback by my ability to seize opportunity by the balls… like a fat grizzly bear poaching salmon swimming upstream.
I can’t tell if it’s because I’m in New York (concrete jungle where dreams are made of) or because I’m a hustla. Almost by default, if you live in New York, you’re not a trust-fund baby, and you don’t make six figures before taxes, you’re hustlin’. You’re makin’ your pesetas past the 9-to-5, you have some Pavlovian muscle-reflex reaction to your work email’s push notifications on your phone, and you don’t have any other form of conversation than that which is work-related. Touché, mon amie. The work-grind here is ferocious, and if you’re not careful, it’ll suck the youth out of you like a Dyson to your face. So, maybe it’s a little bit of both.
I think the long and short end of it is that you have to set yourself up for success, in both the scene and the circumstance, to move the needle. You might have to bleed a little bit (clearly, I’ve sacrificed sanity, soul and normal production of cortisol to make this happen), but the payoff is the sweet satisfaction of knowing that you made your own millions.
Believe you me, I will take total advantage of my new location downtown to search and destroy the likes of Baz Luhrmann and Daniel Radcliffe, especially now that my professional pursuits are on cruise control.
Holy matrimony with dream company: check. Alleviation of brokeness: marginal, but check. Weight loss: I’m twerkin’ on it. Sugardaddy: not check. Get ready for consecutive blog posts to be devoted to the latter two pursuits, coincidentally part and parcel to one another.
Dad: Don’t burn the bridge or shut the door with this company.
Me: I know. But I don’t know what to say to my boss – he’s going to kill me, or I’m going to end up running out of here crying!!!
Dad: I thought you don’t like him.
Me: I don’t. I hate him. But he’s a nice man, until he’s stressed out…then he just emotionally abuses me.
Dad: Ok then who cares?
WHO CARES, INDEED.