From the moleskine: Rudy says

Rudy says*:
Blog please -_-.
I miss reading your blog.
You should blog more.
I've started blogging again.
Here's an early birthday present, a moleskine**.
You need to start writing again, get those creative muscles working.
We'll work on your portfolio when you're free...
Write, dammit.***

And so I've started again, because Rudy says, because of the overwhelming need to rant about the injustices of the world, under the influence of alcohol, on a very long bus ride home, on the verge of a quarter life crises, and because I might actually need to turn this into my next career.

I am a victim. The latest in the toll of those fallen under the crushing wave of the behemoth of a financial crisis that has engulfed the world in economic despair, panic, and many apologetic but still very wealthy bankers.

And it's not a bad thing. I mean I'm not nearly as wealthy, but we all need a reason to leave something comfortable and predictable (i.e. the next project was always going to hurt more with even less thanks, particularly in an industry that was quickly falling down around our knees and increasingly hated), be it a near death experience, unemployment, or the discontinuation of a favorite icecream flavour, so this was simply my swift kick up the ass to get a move on and find something else to get me out of bed in the morning.

Conveniently, and on some supernatural cue that's fast becoming a fixture in my Brownian-motionesque career path, Rudy's filled my head with dreams of copywriting. What is that, you ask? I didn't know either until two weeks ago, so I feel somewhat honoured that he's introduced me to what feels very much like a grown-up secret society. Part of the appeal must be in the fact that very few people actually know what copywriters do, much like my previous job. As I understand it, it has something to do with writing and hoping like hell that you get good enough at it to make a living.

It is, therefore,with great relish and excitement that I grab my shitty severance pay thankyouverymuch in my grubby little hands, shove it under my mattress (because they don't build banks like they used to) and pee into the wind of uncertainty.

*the following text has been paraphrased, condensed, and fudged for dramatic effect and want of a better introduction. It is merely a representative sample, and by no means an accurate reproduction, of the content of one the longest running themes of the daily conversations between myself and the uber-nag behind this post.

**For all of the similarly uncultured sods like myself, this beautiful but unassuming little black notebook is the stuff of history and legend, having been the much loved and used companion of artists and thinkers alike (courtesy of the little information card in the back pocket, which was likely placed there for this very specific educational purpose)

*** This one's entirely made up