The downfall of a working professional
People often ask me, “Alexander, how did you become a magician?” and the truth is: I made a series of increasingly poor decisions and just never stopped. If you’re thinking about pursuing magic as a career, let me save you years of financial ruin, social isolation, and conversations that end with “so what’s your real job?” Do not do it. Magic is not a career—it’s a slow descent into debt, delusion, and constantly having small objects hidden in your clothing. You’ll spend thousands of dollars learning how to lie nicely to strangers for brief moments of approval. You’ll buy overpriced DVDs, gimmicked coins, invisible thread, and a suspicious amount of sponges shaped like rabbits. You’ll train for hours, days, years, all so some drunk guy can say, “I saw that on TikTok.” The props alone will bankrupt you. Magic props are the only items in existence that get smaller as they get more expensive. You’ll spend $80 on a coin that looks exactly like a normal coin, $25 on a deck of cards, and $12 on a rubber band. And you’ll keep buying more because magicians don’t retire—they just accumulate clutter that smells faintly of regret.
Your audience will never take you seriously. Magic is the only profession where people actively root for you to fail. You’ll pull off a perfect illusion, and someone will still shout, “I know how you did it!” No you don’t, Carl. You barely know how to work your coffee machine. But that doesn’t matter, because even when you’re great, they’ll still think you’re cheating—which, to be fair, you are. Your entire livelihood depends on deception and hoping nobody notices your left hand doing something weird.
Your social life? Gone. Every conversation will eventually become, “Show us a trick!” and when you finally do, someone will announce, “I saw how you did that.” Congratulations—you’ve lost a friend and your will to live in one sentence. You’ll perform at parties, not as a guest, but as free labor, smiling through clenched teeth while a toddler tries to grab your cards with jam hands. And when you finally get paid, it’ll be in “exposure” and maybe half a slice of pizza.
The tragedy is that once you learn magic, you can never unlearn it. That childlike wonder you once had—the “how did they do that?” feeling—gone forever. Now you’ll watch other magicians like a bitter detective reviewing security footage. “He flashed the card. Amateur.” You won’t even enjoy your own tricks anymore. You’ll just obsess over angles, lighting, and whether the guy in the third row saw your double lift.
And let’s talk about your living space. It won’t be a home—it’ll be a crime scene covered in playing cards. You’ll find sponge balls in your washing machine, flash paper in your freezer, and the lingering smell of lighter fluid in your curtains. Your family will one day clean out your things and ask, “Why did he own fourteen decks of the same cards?” and there will be no answer, only shame.
At gigs, you’ll be the least respected person in the room. At weddings, you’ll interrupt dinner. At corporate events, you’ll delay PowerPoint slides. At restaurants, you’ll compete with chicken wings for attention—and lose. You’ll tell people you’re an entertainer, and they’ll respond, “Oh, like a clown?” Yes, Susan. Exactly like a clown, but with more debt and less emotional stability.
Magic is not glamorous. It’s a career built on nervous energy, caffeine, and hoping no one spills beer on your gimmicks. You will never be truly understood. Your significant other will never want to “pick a card.” Your family will never stop asking when you’re getting a “real job.” And yet, in spite of all this misery, all this absurdity, every now and then, you’ll see someone’s jaw drop, their eyes widen, and for just one second, you’ll make them believe in something impossible. And that’s when you’ll remember why you keep doing it.
So no, you absolutely should not pursue magic as a career. It’s financially reckless, emotionally draining, and statistically impossible to explain to the IRS. But if you must—if the lure of wonder, applause, and mild chaos is too strong—then welcome. You’ve chosen a life of mystery, mediocrity, and magnificent nonsense. And if that sounds okay to you… well, you’re already one of us.
✨ Alexander the OK — proof that poor life choices can still be entertaining. ✨
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