A Career Change

Yes you heard me right. Dustin Does is officially a big enough success to support me full-time with all of my ads and sponsors and . . .

Fuck that. I will never sell out!

But I mean, if you’re someone with a product to advertise, a promo code offer or you have some spare change floating around in that pocket of yours, I suppose I’m not adverse to taking




I will sell my soul and all of yours for a slice of the capitalistic pie. I’ll even take that shitty last slice that Glenys from the office left because she felt guilty taking the last piece and, instead, decided to leave a single spoonful of pie and a dollop of whip cream. You old hag, just eat the entire last slice and don’t torment my taste buds with a piece of lemon meringue fit for a diabetic. I will find you, and I will kill you.

As you can see, the office life just might not be for me. Which brings me to the entire point of this post.

My dear constant readers – I am quitting my job.

This is the life event that started off this blog in the first place. I have known my time working for municipal government was coming to end for the better part of six months, but it was only the other day that I put in my final resignation. I'll be done with my current employer on July 7th, and to be honest . . .

It scares the fucking piss out of me.

So I come to you with a story. An explanation. A plea for the world's forgiveness.

I'm leaving an enviable, comfortable position with the city that literally has me set for life. I could have lived out my days working for the government, and I never would have been wanting for anything ever again. Except, perhaps, the tender embrace of Emilio Estevez. That is something I will never EVER stop wanting.

                       Okay...not THIS Emilio Estevez.

                       Okay...not THIS Emilio Estevez.

I currently make enough moolah to support a family, own a house, pay all my bills and put away a few bucks in savings every month. I don’t live a lavish life, but it’s comfortable, and if I stuck this out I’d be able to retire at the age of 60 with a fat pension and maybe even only one more divorce under my belt. I work forty hour weeks, I never work weekends, I have great medical benefits and paid holidays, yet I’m fucking miserable at my workplace. And I don’t think I’m alone out there.

Now, I’m not a complete asshole. I fully realize I sound like a spoiled, whiny kent that doesn’t have his priorities straight. Trust me, I feel the same all the time and I hear you. Typing the above paragraph literally made my hands shake, and every time I think about my end date a welling pit of anxiety builds in my stomach and I can’t eat or drink or even jerk off. It’s serious stuff.

I’m giving up security and comfort in a local economic climate that has engineers and tradespeople sucking on the government’s tit for money because there aren’t any jobs, and here I am giving a good one up.

But I have to. I have to.

I’m slowly dying inside working for my current employer. I would get into it, but I’m not about to spit fire and burn bridges that don’t need burning. They haven’t been bad to me, nor particularly great. It’s been an entirely neutral experience with its ups and downs, and I am grateful that they trusted me five years ago and laid a heaping amount of responsibility on a 27 year old that had no fucking clue what he was doing. I was, and still am, the youngest supervisor in my department, and I’ve done some good work in my time with the government, including, but not limited to, my greatest achievement: building a diverse team of raucous, incestuous drunks that work harder than anyone else in our department. I’ll miss them and the other wonderful people I’ve worked with and for over the years, but it’s time to move on.

        Replace kittens with half-naked humans and you get a Dustin-sponsored staff party. *face palm*

        Replace kittens with half-naked humans and you get a Dustin-sponsored staff party. *face palm*

But this isn’t about my ex-employer or my staff. This is my story. This is about me moving on to another stage of my life and finding my element, my purpose for being on this planet for the next fifty or so years. I want to be happy, and this is the first step I have to take.

Over the past year or so I’ve come to a slow and freeing realization:

Life doesn’t need to follow a particular plan.


There is no set path for everyone, no norm that we need to subscribe to no matter what our parents or society tells us. You are your own normal, and you get to choose what that looks like.

You don’t need to graduate, go to secondary education, find a girlfriend or boyfriend, get married, have kids and then fucking die of heart failure at the age of 55.

You can graduate, get a blue collar job and work your way up with your employer, stay single and save money, travel across the world and die happy under an avalanche of snow back-country skiing in the Alps with your buddies.

You can even go to clown school, fuck all of the other clowns (this is a common thing apparently), retire from clowning, go back to school to be a doctor, move to Thailand and create a legion of lady boys, fuck said lady boys, retire from doctoring, and then die gracefully at the age of 40 from AIDS.

You just do you, man. Whatever that is.

But seriously, knowing that I can do whatever I want with the rest of my life was a revelation. Ever since my sudden divorce in 2015, I’ve been trying to fill the hole in my life with pussy and booze, and while that was fun while it lasted, the shine wore off over the course of the passing harsh Canadian winter and I became extremely lonely.

Back in December I spoke with a close friend of mine, and the drunk asshole said something that will always stick with me:

“Before you share your life with anyone, you need to be content with yourself. By yourself. Only then will you be happy.”

The following bit is a pretty tough thing to write down. But if I’m to be honest, it’s so very, very true.

I’ve spent my whole life depending on others for my happiness. And I don’t think I’m not alone in this either. We all want attention, external praise and love from someone else because it gives us permission to be happy with our achievements and love ourselves. Unfortunately, when that praise and love is removed or isn’t immediately apparent, we become sad or depressed and retreat into our bedrooms where we spend hours upon hours watching Netflix or putting strange objects in our bums just to feel something again.

                                                             Am . . . am I alone in this? . . .

                                                             Am . . . am I alone in this? . . .

After the chat with my buddy, the next day I woke up and I did an assessment of my life. To be honest, it didn’t take long.

I already knew what I needed to do. There was a single change I could make that would change me as an individual and force me outside my comfort zone for the first time since my University freshman year almost a decade ago.

I needed to change my career. I had to come up with a game plan, resign from my position as gracefully as possible and go find my true calling. This, I knew, had to begin with some long-term travel plans, but I’ll get into that exciting bitty another day.

Working for municipal government was never something that I wanted. It was something that made sense at a time in my life that required steady employment of any nature. I was getting married, I had student loans to pay, bills were mounting and I couldn’t find a job in my chosen field of history and museum curation. Life was moving fast and we needed income. My ex-wife and I needed to grow up and find a real job, the world told us, and so I applied on my current position with little hope of even getting an interview.

Well as fate would have it, I got the job. Apparently a bunch of slack-jaw idiots and racists must have been fighting me for the position, because I still have no idea how I landed the job as an external, non-unionized candidate. But I did, and it sculpted the next five years of my life.

Life continued to move fast. I got married, started saving for a house, bought a nice, big crew-cab truck in anticipation of the kids that were sure to follow, and then my marriage suddenly started to fall apart. The butt sex stopped, then the real sex stopped, and naturally arguments ensued. We grew apart, became roommates instead of partners, and we both got wrapped up in ourselves while yearning for something more. Some days I hated her guts, others we were able to tolerate each other and fake it, and then there were those super-shit days when I was a drunk mess in the basement feeling sorry for myself, watching reruns of Survivor and trying to understand how I got to where I currently was. It’s hard to put into words how much it sucked, but it definitely sucked harder than this girl I saw recently with the vacuum mouth of a fucking Dyson.

                                            Ladies – you can’t steal souls through penises. Be nice.

                                            Ladies – you can’t steal souls through penises. Be nice.

And then, as fate would have it, my ex saved me and told me she was gay. It explained everything, and there’s not a word in the English dictionary that could aptly define the combined feeling of sadness and hope I felt in that moment. It was the end of ten years of commitment, but along with that came with the promise of something new.


There is not a single life plan. There are many, and knowing that is to free yourself.


I don’t need much to be happy.

I don’t need things cluttering up my walls, telling everyone about my personality. How often do strangers even come over? I can speak for myself when they do.

I don’t need possessions that I only use once every few years. We all have a ton of shit that we might use one day. Well guess what? We could all shed a few hundred pounds of consumer goods and not lose a single ounce of happiness. I’ve begun selling off my shit, and you know what? It feels good.

I don’t need space. I currently live in 700 square feet, and I use maybe 400 of it. Nice for company, but that’s what people with homes are for.

I don’t need a big truck, or an expensive TV package with all of the channels. These things are just excess weight that provide me little to no happiness.

I don’t even need my BDSM sex swing. That thing has seen enough wear and tear over the years, and I don’t think it’s exactly something you “hand down” to your Newly Single friends.

C'mon people, admit it . . .  we   all   want a gimp in our life.

C'mon people, admit it . . .  we all want a gimp in our life.


And what do I need?

I need a job, a career, or a calling that I find meaningful. No more settling for less. Fucking YOLO.

I need a lifestyle that fits me, not a lifestyle that’s expected of me.

I need to travel, to leave everything I know, to step outside my comfort zone and fill that emptiness in my life with meaning.

And then I need to come back home and begin the next chapter of my life. What is that? I’m not 100% sure yet, and that’s both scary and exciting.

This is a blog post that I’ve been meaning to write for a long time now, and I think that it took so long because I was concerned about what the world might think. In a way, this is the first step in a process that will take months and maybe even years to complete. But I’m ready for it, and I hope all of you will join me for the ride.

Because I can guarantee it won’t all be a bunch of self-reflection and mushy bullshit. This is going to be a fun and ridiculous learning experience that I’m sharing for a reason: so that you might be inspired and so that you might learn from my mistakes.

And if it all goes wrong?

It’ll be hilarious. Really fucking funny, and you better laugh with me, motherfucker. Because that might be all I have left.