California: From Richard Branson Successes to Mike Tyson Knockouts

Six weeks ago, I left Alabama with a big knot in my throat, sweaty hands, and three suitcases. I knew TWO people. A friend from college and a surfer dude that I met on my first trip out. To put it shortly, I had nothing, but a mutha fuggin’ Bon Jovi prayer. Well, I had a job too, but for dramatic purposes, you get the point.

I was so sick of being stuck and waiting for life to happen, which is how the past two years seemed to slowly drain by. I felt like a bumbling idiot with a Master’s in history and enough student debt to pay for 97 brand new houses.

I literally threw myself out in the universe and started demanding that my life change. I’ve always been impatient, so it was time that I grabbed my goals by the proverbial balls.

See, before I moved, I wanted three things to happen:

1. I wanted to move to California. Gut feeling. Don’t know where it came from.

2. I wanted a Mini Cooper. Girly, I know, but whatever and shut up. Not comparable to my last car (the sexiest Buick Rendezvous you’ve ever seen).

3. I wanted to write for a living. Nothing more. Nothing less. I did not want to pick up the phone and make sales calls. I did not want to design things in Photoshop all day. I wanted to write.

Well, here I am today. I live in California, I drive a Mini Cooper, and I’m a professional writer. And I made it happen in three weeks.

When I tell people my story, I often get, what I’ve started calling the, “Cancer Patient Response.” It normally goes something like this:

“Where’s that accent from? Are you from Australia? The UK? I can’t pin it.”

“No, I’m American. I just moved here three weeks ago from Alabama!”

“So, you got family or friends out here?”

“No. Just me. Moved for work.”

Here it comes: “OMGGGGGG, you are like, sooooooo brave. Wow. Just wow. Just wow. You brave soul.”

Huh? Any way, needless to say, the response has confused me a bit, but I just roll with it.

Otherwise, life is good. I write motivational blogs/speeches/career and business advice for work.

Next week, I’m getting Richard Branson’s haircut.

“I’ll take the Branson, please.”

I was crushing life so hard on like on like 9 different levels. Until last week. Last week (well almost two weeks ago), a demon manifested itself into my body.

I really don’t know how else to explain it.

After a series of getting punched in the face (arguable of whether or not that was deserved), subsequently receiving a battered-wife black eye, a common cold, AND FOOD POISONING, I decided that I needed to slow my Richard Branson ass down.

My motivational speeches were about to take on a darker tone. Today’s topic: You ain’t shit.

Ya’ll. I needed a serious come-to-Jesus with Jesus. I was acting like a damn FOOL. Here I was, thinking I was Richard Branson, bee-bopping around in my Mini Cooper, and causing one hell of a disturbance to anyone who crossed my path.

Jesus took the wheel in the form of my Mini Cooper finance manager. She reached out to me and I told her later that I had got punched in the face. Rather than saying, “Oh, no! I’m so sorry!” she said, “It’s a reality check.”

A reality check? Ummm, you’re supposed to feel sorry for me right now and you’re doing a really bad job.

The more I thought about it, it was 100% a reality check. I won’t go into why I got punched in the face, because it’s a long story, but every time I looked in the mirror, there was my reality check. I couldn’t just move to California and be a shithead.

It gets worse.

Karma has a real way of showing its ass at literally like the worst moment in time. Basically, what I’m saying is that karma’s go-to karaoke song is Kelly Clarkson’s, “For a Moment Like This.”

THAT WEEK: I caught a cold from my new office, my black eye worsened into a green/black/blue eye, and I got food poisoning. I was top two sickest I’ve ever been in my life. As I lay dying with my throbbing eye of pain, “REALITY CHECK!” rang in my ears.

So here’s a list of things that I won’t be participating in from now on:

Getting involved in fights.
Being the root of all evil.
Drinking 27 drinks.
Huntington Beach.
Honestly believing that I’m Richard Branson.
Oh, and bad bar food.

So far, California has been great. Last week, was one of the most WRECKED weeks of my life, but I like to think it was just a healthy dose of karma. It’s over and done with and now I can move forward and stop being a douchebag.

And please, someone seriously punch me in the face again if I start giving you a pep talk about following your dreams.

I’m not qualified to be Richard Branson.

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