I was never the kind of person who knew what they wanted to do for a career.

When I was in third grade I thought I might like to be a brain surgeon. In high school, a barkeep. Once I discovered philosophy, well, I thought academia might be the thing for me.

But I never had any love for surgery or the brain. Bartending was misguided, youthful exuberance. And although philosophy does indeed occupy a special place in my heart, I don't mourn not having ascended the ivory tower.

Besides, we're talking about a job. Work, for fucks sake. And work is work, right? Now, I know what I like to do: I like to bullshit with people. It's what I'm good at. Sure, I can uphold my end of a serious conversation. Sure, I can get deep. But what I really enjoy is aimless, meandering chit-chat. Gossip. Idle talk about the weather or the ballgame. And so last Friday, when, after lingering over lunch I found myself strolling on the sunny side of the street with a pretty girl at my side, chit-chatting, I realized: I fucking love my job. Because I can do that, and that's pretty much my idea of perfect.

And as long as I can get paid doing that, it makes no difference to me what exactly my job is.