Just download IG and TikTok to create content again.
I scrolled through a few reels and then it hit me all at once:
Instagram makes me wanna get rich
LinkedIn makes me want to kill myself
X makes me want to kill a group
TikTok makes me want to end the world
IG is GOATED.
My sparring partner fractured my rib during a kickboxing sesh a few days ago.
I now understand why professional fighters barely spar with rookies. They don’t know how to hold back
In the next sparring session I too will turn into a rookie.
And not know how to hold back.
It’s kind of like the “pulling girls” analogy
You can try all the hacks:
Change your style, work on your speaking skills, watch 100 pickup videos, try all the quirky lines
Until a BADMAN comes along
And SWIPES her from you REAL QUICK.
Real feats work, tips and tricks don’t.
My first week at Whop, the Head of Sales looked me dead in the eyes, handed me a ramp card and said:
"Your budget is $100k/month to close deals."
That one sentence literally shattered everything I believed about what "going the extra mile" meant.
I saw the top account executive flying people out same day, putting them in the most exclusive hotels and restaurants, and even spending thirty thousand dollars just to have a single meeting
I thought going the extra mile was a good follow-up email. A nice gift basket. Maybe a Zoom call on a Saturday or sending over some edible arrangements after an introduction.
Then I watched what actually closing big deals looks like. So I flew prospects out. Took same-hour flights for a single in person meeting.
I sent hundreds of random gifts like luxury chocolate, katanas, custom jerseys, even hand-delivered gifts instead of shipping them.
I even put one of my deals on a helicopter to meet me 30 mins after getting intro'd because that's what it took to get it signed (closed same week btw, $4.8m/y business).
Speed was the same story. The difference between the rep who wins and the rep who doesn't is how fast they execute.
Text any top Whop rep right now and you'll hear back in 30 seconds, from 10am-10pm.
Whop didn't become a billion-dollar company by luck.
They were willing to go absurdly far to make things happen, and once you've seen that up close, you can't unsee it.
It was an honor to work alongside those guys and to be pushed to a new level, and just one year in that environment has 10x'd my impact on my current employees, my current clients, and my current business
My sparring partner fractured my rib during a kickboxing sesh a few days ago.
I now understand why professional fighters barely spar with rookies. They don’t know how to hold back
In the next sparring session I too will turn into a rookie.
And not know how to hold back.
There’s a big difference between journaling with a pen and notebook vs a laptop.
On my pc I type as quick as possible to get 1000 thoughts out of my head.
In my notebook I focus on each letter and word.
Big difference in the thought processing
I love both though
True story time.
Been gone over a year. Lot of you mfs asking where I went.
Short answer: the rock bottom of rock bottom.
Long answer: divorce court in Manhattan.
Absolute fucking trash can city.
Show up in linen capris.
No shirt.
First edition Holes under one arm.
Kettlebell in the other.
Cloud of smoke behind me like a man on fucking fire.
Lawyer tells me to sit.
Strike one.
Judge asks for my financial records.
Slide him a Waffle House napkin.
“$1.9m. Somewhere.”
Ex-wife wants the house, car, portfolio and half the furniture.
Furniture?
Bitch married a man who hasn’t sat down since 2020 and thinks we own a fucking sectional.
No chairs. No couch. No bed.
Closest thing I own to furniture is an ashtray on the floor.
She can have it.
Divorce finalized 11:11am.
She gets everything.
I keep the debt.
Net worth gone. Credit cratered. No home. No woman. No chair.
Maximum leverage.
Walk east until I hit the Atlantic.
Stow away on a ship headed through the Strait of Hormuz.
War with Iran starts halfway there.
Captain wants to turn around.
Ask if the missiles move vertically or horizontally.
He can’t answer.
Take command.
Spend the next few months advising both sides.
Americans want air superiority.
Iranians want strategic depth.
Both thinking horizontally.
Kick over the peace table.
Light a cig.
Read chapter seven of Holes aloud.
Ceasefire signed in twenty minutes.
Then collapses.
Even better.
Pressure creates diplomacy.
Fly home just in time for the World Cup.
FIFA wants $7,380 for a seat at the final.
A seat.
International humiliation.
Walk into MetLife without a ticket.
Security says the final isn’t for nine days.
Tell him winners arrive before the event exists.
He opens the gate.
Walk onto the field.
80,000 empty seats surrounding me.
Disgusting.
Then I see it.
One black leather chair sitting alone at midfield.
My phone on the seat.
Envelope underneath.
Open it standing.
Cashier’s check for $1.9m.
Deed to the house.
Divorce annulment.
Account password.
One sentence written across the back:
SIT DOWN AND IT’S ALL YOURS.
Everything clicks.
Divorce. Manhattan. Iran. World Cup.
Year-long international psyop to get Brute into a fucking chair.
FIFA. Ex-wife. State Department.
Same horizontal cabal.
Laugh loud enough to wake New Jersey.
Light the $1.9m check with my cig.
Use it to burn the deed.
Use the deed to burn the annulment.
Use the annulment to set the chair on fire.
Phone turns on from the heat.
48,000 notifications.
Don’t need the password.
Phone unlocks out of fucking fear.
Walk out through the players’ tunnel while the chair melts into the field.
Lost the wife.
Lost the money.
Briefly lost maritime jurisdiction.
Defeated a multinational sitting operation.
Never bent the knee.
STILL FUCKING STANDING.