Three years ago I dated an ambitious young train wreck who, along with whispering creepy nothings into my ear into the wee hours of the morning, told me something unsettling that would keep me up at night long after the relationship had terminated: Either everything is going great with your career, or everything is going great with love; you can’t have both. (Given that he was crushing it in the career department at the time, I had to make the grim deduction that I was representative of a depressing love life. Guy really knew how to charm a girl.) Having immediately dismissed the comment as being the drunken musings of a sad and lonely man, I believed him to be wrong. And, with the optimism only a 26-year-old fresh off the boat to New York City after an LA-breakup could be capable of, I rebuked him. Nay, cynic! I argued. You can have it all! Dream it all! Be it all! Of course, I kept this naïve proclamation to myself, since his shifty eyes and chain-smoking proclivities scared me a little bit.