After months and months of skinning my knees in my new job as a Headhunter, in January, I shot from dead last in the office to third in sales. It’s quite literally the toughest endeavour I’ve ever undertaken, but after a few deals, I know what it takes to be successful.
But wait: this isn’t Diary of a Headhunter, or is it? Have I succumbed to the succubus that is a career making six figures, thereby sacrificing my dream of becoming a killer stand-up comedian??
The Siren Song of Six Figures
Yo, true say, money’s a fuckin’ temptress and a half, f’real, f’real. She’s got a phat ass, and it’s real – no tupperware injections or nothin’. She’s, um, like half asian, half russian, half italian, or some shit like that. AND her dad’s rich. Twelve thousand dollars A MONTH; that’s what’s close within my grasp this month.
So I’m done. No more stand-up. From now on, I’m gonna make bank, vacation in the south of France, and sip mango juice out of a crystal flute, elbows resting on the rails of a yacht, wearing a pair white linen pants and brown pre-broken in loafers with tassles, no socks, and a silk shirt with the buttons undone, stretch-marked belly hanging out, AND NOT GIVE A FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU…
Everytime I Try To Get Out…
But no…NO. That’s not it. My mind keeps going back to comedy, and I still come up with jokes all day long. During the day, I have a whale of a time making fun of everyone at work, making the guys beside me laugh, and hell, even making my clients and candidates laugh, too. I’m starting to learn how to build comedy into my daily life. And every Saturday, after a brutal week full of peaks and valleys, I drag my tired ass of out bed, pack a lunch, and come into the office – but I don’t work.
Instead, I pick up the empty water bottle on my desk, pretend it’s a mic, and recite jokes to a sold out audience of computer monitors and motivational posters (Confidence: The guy who said it’s not about winning or losing, probably lost. Teamwork: There’s no I in team, unless you’re French, and just look what happened to them).
Can’t Stop, Won’t Stop, Eh Eh, Eh Eh
So yo, although I don’t get to write you as often as I would like to, stay faithful, diary. I ain’t going nowhere. I’m still here. The plan is still the plan is still the plan: to have a job that pays me good money, thus giving me the freedom to do comedy. It’s one of those one step backwards for two steps forward type of deals.
And who said I can’t make good money AND do stand-up comedy at the same time? There’s no rule that you have to give your left nut, sacrifice your most prizèd lamb, and eat mac and cheese for 10 years in order to make it big…or is there? There’s a nagging voice in the back of my head that says that, one day, I’m going to have to drop everything and devote my entire life to comedy.
But that day isn’t today. We’ll cross that bridge and engrave our name on the handrail when we get there. You don’t have to have all of the answers in order to begin. There’s nothing wrong with feeling your way through the dark, collecting breadcrumbs along the way, getting lost, choosing a different path, and living with questions rather than settling for weak answers.
By the way, wouldn’t it be funny if there was a a ghetto lottery game whose prize was a lifetime of child support payments? Cash for Kids, or some shit like that. The tragedy is that the tickets would be bought not by the fathers but by the single mom’s.