I was out on a date with this guy from the financial world, and we were having basic first date conversations.

Him: “What do you do for a living?”

Me: “I’m a writer.”

Him: “I know, but like, what do you do for a living?”

Me: "I am a writer.”

Him: “But like, how do you make money?”

Me: “I. Am. A. Writer.”

…is this guy stupid or just that corporate? I pondered on top of how I could end the date faster.

Him: “So how much do you make?”

Me: “Do you want to know how much I weigh, too?”

I told him, a mean estimate of my earnings as it varies month to month. His response …

Him: “That's it?! You could be making twice that if you worked in sales.”

Oh. No. He. Didn’t.

Well, no shit, Sherlock.

I am an artist. Which in summations means I make a living off my creativity and work in an industry with absolutely no job security.

But I am doing what I love for a living. To me that's living large. I am getting paid to do what I am passionate about, and to me, that makes me rich. I followed my dreams and took a leap of faith with no financial net, and that is priceless. Sometimes I’m balling on a budget, sometimes I’m frugal, but no matter what, I am always happy, which you can't buy with a six-figure sales salary.

I moved to New York City right out of college with nothing but a dream and a degree so I could work an entry level job at MAXIM Magazine, making $28,000 a year. I made it in NYC, on that salary. And I have done it all myself. Well, maybe with a little help from mom sometimes, but with absolutely no help from a man. None.

So, I don't need you coming in now and trying to tell me to reroute my career just so I could have more money and require your services, Mr. Money Bags ... is what I was thinking.

But with the rolling of the eyes and the biting of the tongue, I just replied, “Clearly, we don’t care about the same things. Now let’s order. I only went on this date because I'm too poor to buy food myself."