Quitting your Job at 35

When I was searching for permission on the internet to quit my job there wasn’t much inspiration. There’s plenty of stories but they were from people who seemed to have back up plans or were trying to sell you some kind of dream. It appeared that quitting your 9-5 job for seemingly nothing was as popular as never moving out of your parents home.

I didn’t make a 6 digit income but $55,000 a year to deliver parcels was a decent gig especially for someone with no real employable skills. Most people in my position never leave but I guess I’m not like most people. The job I had was the ideal job that I thought I always wanted which proved to me that I need to live differently than your standard North American life because if I can’t be content doing this then this particular journey is over. The compensation for my work was good on paper but the catch was that you had to trade most of your life for it without any significant break in between.

If you are thinking about quitting a decent job you will over-think things unless if you lack the ability to think. I had been planning my escape for a while but I chickened out so many times because the primitive wiring kicks in when you get to the edge of the cliff. Of course, once I walk away from the danger I’m a tough guy again. The fear erases all the rational thoughts but it always came back to the same question. Can I accept staying at this job forever? My answer was no because I think I have the option and I don’t believe a person in my situation should be living life in this manner.

One of the most difficult obstacles to quitting my job was the fear of going through the process. Having to have that conversation with my manager and then the bombardment of questions from coworkers for 2 weeks was a little bit frightening to me. If there was just a quit button I could press at home I would have been done much sooner.

When people found out it was my last day there was some shock. People had me figured as a ‘lifer.’ Not everyone is going to be completely honest about their opinion once they know you have already made your decision. I’ll tell you what I think the four types of opinions were.

  1. “Good for you.” Some people understood and thought it was cool.
  2. “Hmmm…okay.” Not something they would recommend but they respect your decision.
  3. You are stupid.
  4. You are really fucking stupid.

One coworker that I hardly ever spoke with came up to me to ask me about it all.

Her: No other job?

Me: Nope. You like that, don’t you?

Her: Yah. 

She walked away with a smile and looked impressed. I think I made her horny.

The thoughts went around my mind on how I could possibly find ways to be content with keeping my job but I realized it would just be a way of making it easier to do something that I don’t want to do like putting ketchup on dog shit before you eat it. I think I’ll hold off on the dog shit altogether until it becomes necessary. To continue doing a job that you don’t really want to do requires a belief that you have to.

I don’t have any grandiose plans of getting a better job. My goal is to find a way of living that is more suited for myself and I am willing to suffer for my beliefs. I don’t believe the route that provides the most financial and social comfort is the best option for everybody. I don’t want my life to be absolutely dictated by numbers and a set of unwritten rules propagated by people who don’t care about me or even know me. I wrote abundantly on my disgust towards the working stiff life and society in general. To have beliefs but to not follow them for the exchange of comfort and security is cowardly.

It’s only been a few days but it hasn’t really sunk in yet that I quit this job. I don’t know how it feels to be released from prison but I think the feeling of leaving the company property for the last time after 7 years is similar.

So what am I going to do then? Take it easy for a bit. I plan to spend a lot of my time volunteering. Maybe get a dog. Work part-time or the odd job. Travelling is an option as well so if any of you want to provide some hospitality, let me know. But I guess a big part of the plan is, we’ll see what happens.

A Picture Says 500 Posts

Screenshot 2015-09-19 at 10.50.45 AM

See! Someone cares about me.

500 posts and I still have not been Freshly Pressed. How dare they not recognize the greatest Asian blogger of all time. I have China to thank for blocking all opportunity for world wide web self-expression from its people. Having a billion less people to compete with allows me to shine brighter in the blogosphere.

I’ve basically written a good sized book. There are some pages of nonsense but let’s just count those as the equivalent to the photos people include in their autobiography. OK?

I’d like WordPress to thank me for giving me the opportunity to spew my literary genius onto their platform. Gracing their webspace with my creative grammar and irreverence has revived my soul from the deep dark holes of a mundane life. I know that they have not featured me on Freshly Pressed because they want me all to themselves, and for that I am flattered.

It will be a sad day when I’m gone from these parts. WordPress will crumble and the disgruntled bloggers will cry for my return.

“Mr Johnson, please come back. We need you,” is what they will scream. Bloggers from across the world will gather in mobs and throw their keyboards in a pile and set fire to them. They will march in formation, holding large posters of my pixelated gravatar demanding my return. I will wake up to the news alerts, and being the noble human being that I am, I will do all that I can to cease the rioting. A live stream broadcast will be shown and I will commence a speech fit for a king.

I will address all the lay bloggers who will be at the mercy of my every word. The rioting will stop. The so-called leaders of this world will be in debt to me. Life will return to its day to day grind of morning coffee and shit stained underwear. I will be a recluse online and in real life but from that day on, my spirit will be embedded in the fears and aspirations of a global nation.

Mr Johnson…The greatest ever. Thank you. No, thank me.

A Hard Book to Read

Attempting to read the thoughts of others, especially the people that you do not know very well, is a futile endeavour. If people were books it would be a compilation of lies and contradictions written in broken English because most of it wouldn’t make any sense. There would be a few pages of honesty but those pages would be written in almost microscopic font and located on page 1048559 so chances are you would never get to them.

I’ve always believed that people were full of shit but only recently have I realized that people are playing a role for their entire waking lives. The smile on their face and the absence of any indication of conflicting and melancholic thoughts is a charade. I think I get it…life kind of sucks but displaying negativity isn’t going to help so let’s always play pretend. Some people won’t even stop pretending on their online life.

This is a reason why you should never make decisions based on what you think other people are thinking or doing because you don’t really know what’s going on. It’s like basing your knowledge on a book that was poorly researched and written by a liar.

How pathetic will you feel if you base your life decisions and beliefs on the opinions of others only to discover in the future that even they stopped believing what they were preaching?

Living with Cardboard Boxes


I deliver and pickup parcels for a job by day. This morning I dropped off a decent size box from Lululemon by the back basement door for a person I have delivered to before. 30 pairs of yoga pants maybe? No one answered the door so I left it in a safe place. The picture you see above was taken then. It’s not every day that you get to see such a unique display of online shopping aftermath so I felt inspired to capture this piece of art.

A few hours later I get a message from my company informing me that the package I dropped off is nowhere to be found by the customer. The fact that the package was hidden from the public but very visible to the resident, gave me the feeling that this story wouldn’t end innocently.

I swung by the place to find a Chinese lady there that I never met. She was not friendly but it would make sense in a minute. In broken English she tells me that her tenant skipped out on her without paying what she owed. I told her why I was there and she told me that she saw the “bitch” this morning running away with a box. Okay, it’s all making sense now.

She showed me the inside of the basement suite where the deserter stayed and it was filled with like 100 empty boxes and all the wrappings. It looked like the day after Christmas at an orphanage with presents but no adults. I had glimpses inside when the now ex-tenant signed for packages in front of a half opened door but I just thought she was running some kind of online business. This time I was able to see the entire suite and it was a freaking nightmare. The landlord lady told me the bedroom was filled with boxes too. Just imagine what you see in the picture above but multiplied by 5. I wanted to take a picture of the inside but I felt it would be a bit insensitive.

The bad tenant/scam artist Chinese woman in her 30’s always gave me a weird vibe because she was living with cardboard boxes everywhere and she always had a depressed look on her face. She’s ordered some expensive items in the past which makes me think it’s possible that she was running some sort of credit card scam and using that address to get her packages shipped. If not then she just has a spending and mental disorder. Other than that she looked fairly innocent with her glasses and meek demeanor. She likely called in to say the package was missing hoping she could get another one for free. Well fuck her because the package did not require a signature.


There is a debilitating trait ingrained in me that only accepts the truth and nothing but. Once I see bullshit the switch in my head flips and I see a shade of red. Years of kinship or camaraderie are greatly devalued and become next to worthless in my currency of importance. The thousands of steps taken up the mountain become nothing to the seconds it takes to fall back deeper than the beginning.

The truth is buried deep somewhere in our consciousness and just as deep in the outside world. I can find some footprints but there is no happiness in my life until I find Bigfoot. To simply choose a path and create a meaning is not a sufficient algorithm for my operating system. No results will be found, please try again.

I like the truth because its foundation is solid. You can chip away at it but you will never affect its core. Disingenuous ways of living are spawned by comfortable ideas that are never questioned and are fortified with irrational rationalizations. My passion for realness trumps the comfort that the mind can allow one to have.

It is a horrible way to have to go through life. It would probably be best to deal with my affliction by lowering expectations because hardly anyone or anything in this world seem to be real for very long. But what is true? Perhaps what is true to me is not universally correct. I don’t know. I only know how I feel. My ability to be sold an idea just because it is comfortable is as difficult as selling an expensive pillow to a cheap person.

Pretending to be Happy

When people ask me if I’m happy I always tell them I’m not. I think the definition of happy is different for everyone and mine is not made up just to conveniently satisfy my ego.

What people don’t always believe is that if you say that you are happy it means that is your general mood for most of your present life. People mistake happiness with feeling good about themselves. They tell themselves they are happy when they think about what they have or what they have done in life. It’s almost like there is an official happiness fact sheet and as long as your life somewhat matches up with it then you can say that you are happy regardless of how often you feel misery. I suppose this can be in direct relation to feeling happy for the sole reason of feeling accepted.

If you hate being at your job, I don’t think you can say you are happy. How can one say that they hate at least half of their day and be happy? Combined with all the other parts of your life that you get no fulfillment from, I think it would be safe to say that you are not happy. You might have purpose and parts of your life that do make you happy, but you are not happy. I don’t think a 50/50 split of happiness and misery equals being happy. Although, if you are at a 50/50, you might be better off than most people.

In our society, not being happy is the ultimate failure in life which is why so many people cheat so that it can appear that they pass the test. People blatantly lie about anything to save face so of course they are going to lie about being happy even if they are at 20/80.

Motivational Speech from Old People

An old man answered the door for a parcel delivery I had yesterday. He was walking with a cane…barely. His wife came by after to check out what was happening. She was walking fine. You always hear present day women complain about how unfair their situation is compared to men but you wouldn’t see that case in action here. Having to walk with a cane and dying 5 years earlier is the price men pay for that supposed 30% extra in pay women are always complaining about. Want to trade?

He went on to seemingly brag about being retired with his pension and seemed to be trying to inspire me to get to his position(hunched). It was like a fat guy trying to sell you weight loss products that he says he uses. His wife chimed in and started giving a lesson on saving for retirement.

“Just $25 a week and you’ll be surprised.”

$25 a week? Maybe in 1980. The only surprise I would get is how little pizza that will get me in the year 2045 even with the accumulated capital gains.

They didn’t know this but I know their son. The name is uncommon and they told me where they used to live which would coincide with what I know of his history. I didn’t want to mention it though because their son was in the drug game for a decade and things didn’t end so well. They’d might assume that I knew about it and I wouldn’t want them to feel the potential awkwardness or shame.

It’s nice that they assume that my life is going to be like theirs given that they lived in a different time. They bought their house in 1998 for $300,000 and today it’s worth $1.2 million. They were one of the lucky ones to hit the Vancouver real estate lottery. A pension might be an expired idea by the time I get there and if it’s not it’s going to be a pension for suckers. That’s just the beginning. I may have to deal with expensive drinking water, oil shortage and chemical weapons.

I’m just being negative because I don’t want to work for 39 years. I don’t mind the cane and earlier death but the 39 years. Ewww. When the time comes I want the nicest walking cane around so that all the other old guys will envy me and my hopefully non-leaking prostate which I will showoff.

Lazy Peasant Soup

If you lived life as a true peasant you would not be allowed to be lazy but living in an advanced developed country allows you maximum laziness even if your social class is of that of a peasant.

The reason why I make a big pot of soup is because I am lazy to cook every day which makes my soup a reflection of my laziness. I don’t peel or chop anything…I just wash it(sort of) and throw it in. The vegetables being locally organic gives me a justifiable enough reason to not peel the skin off.

In the pot…

-side ribs(semi-chopped)
-tomatoes from my uncles’s garden
-various potato types
-cumin powder
-dash of vinegar


Of course being the lazy person I am, I lazily forgot to put in the carrots.


I also forgot to put in this zucchini or Chinese melon from my uncle’s garden. I had to chop this one up though. It would be kind of weird if it was just sticking out.


And there you go! Fit for a peasant. I wanted to put in some Bok Choy but the soup was filled out to the max. I would have completed the peasant package with some bread on the side but the bread line was too long at the farmers market. I would have lined up but I was too lazy. Or maybe I was feeling too cheap to pay $6 for a loaf.


When simmering the soup I huddle myself up to the stove to capitalize on the expended heat. It’s two birds with one stone sort of thing…the soup gets made and I stay warm while everything else around me stays dark and cold. It’s a hard life and the negativity sometimes seeps in but more vital than warm soup are my hopes that I will make it out of this decrepit peasant life. Surviving off soup for a whole lifetime is no way for a one to live. But for now, I bless this soup.

Stuffing my Face

I start off every Saturday by going to the farmers market to pick up breakfast and food for the week. They have food trucks there because that’s sort of the newest and coolest thing these days. I’m sure people think they are cool and morally superior for shopping at the farmers market. I got this cool meal from a food truck ran by hipster looking Asians. It was pretty good.


Rice, pork belly, lightly poached egg, herbs and stuff


Photo not by me

There’s a bleacher type bench next to the market where people sit and eat their food. Two weeks ago there was a team of teenage girls practicing soccer on the big grass area. Everyone on the bleachers were facing the other way because I’m guessing they were scared to be thought of as perverts. No underage girls today.

Dinner time. Growing up, I used to love breaded pork chops. My mother has refused to make them for me since 1992. I think it brings back bad memories of a time when she had to wake up extra early before work to prepare dinner. Those things on the pork chop are caramelized apples slices. I never understood the whole apple sauce thing. I understand gravy. I understand peanut butter and jelly but why pork chops with apple sauce? It’s like cranberry with turkey. I don’t get that either. It’s okay I guess but not that great that it deserves a place on the Hollywood Walk of Food Fame.

Sunday night, I had some probably microwaved spaghetti and meatballs. I feel fancy when I use a spoon to help wrap the noodles around my fork.


I’ve left out a couple other fatboy meals that I had because by the time I thought about taking a photo, I finished all the food. I feel like a loser for posting food pictures of what I ate. Who really gives a shit about what I ate, right? Starving people around the world must hate people who post their food photos online. It’s basically bragging.

I’ll leave you with this. This was on a customer’s door. I thought it was really funny so I took a picture of it. I should steal this and give it to some girl. Or guy. Maybe I would give it to some really old guy. The reaction would be priceless.


I Love You

Death of your Online LIfe

I was just thinking about this blogger who blogged almost every day and then just stopped. He had a decent following and left no words for his reason of departure. He is in his 60’s and I’m wondering if maybe he died. I think this is a possibility because he smoked cigarettes and had a huge belly. Your online friends dying is going to be a major reality one day. If you have enough of these friends for long enough you’ll be sure to go through the experience. The fact that online friends exist is already kind of mind boggling but down the road, your online existence might be your primary one.

If one of your online friends were to pass away, chances are you would never know about it. One day they are blogging about their favourite cereal and the next day they get hit by a bus. If they have the chance to know about their impending death, there’s a good chance they won’t even mention it. They might say nothing or lie and say they are done with the blogosphere. If you’re an asshole like myself who wouldn’t be able to help himself then you might write a dramatic post about how your flesh eating disease will have you in 5 days and how it’s been such a great experience knowing everyone. Of course, I would end it with some philosophical quote about life and include a photo of myself from 10 years ago. Actually, I look better now because I lost the fat off my face. You can see bone structure now.

Online friendships aren’t so tight right now but possibly and I think probably, they will be in the future. If that is the case then one might be more compelled to leave their online community with the truth. Or maybe not. In the future, I’m picturing online funerals or at least an online memorial of some kind. But I suppose having the opportunity to leave loved ones without ever having the message of death delivered could be the more desired route.