This business was killing me.

I was done.

I hung up my last sales call.


I laid back in my chair, and put my hands over my face.

Yes, I had months when I made good money.

So what. It means nothing when you’re miserable.

In 2018, I set out on a (stupid) mission to build an advertising agency.

As part of my day job, I have almost all the skills needed, as I invested millions of dollars in ads for clients.

The one thing I didn’t think of, though, is whether or not it would make my life better, aside from money.

Things like a general sense of “happiness”, spending time with friends and family, going out with women, all seemed irrelevant, and was considered a privilege.

Dumb thinking.

It took me three years to realize this:

Your brain can’t predict whether something will make you happy or not.


I “fell for” a simple idea that most of us have these days:

If you want to be happy, identify what you want out of your life, set clear goals, and work to achieve them.


It doesn’t work. Not for me, anyway.

The funny thing is, I felt like something was wrong the entire time.

I felt like this for THREE damn years, as if the world was screaming, “STOP! and choose another path for yourself”.

So I started writing. It feels a lot better. Like therapy.