950 lbs, bars loaded- I step on the platform, and the fever is gone, my relationship stresses are gone, I don't have a bill due, my deepest pains are nonexistent. I live for this moment I'm all the way the fuck in- against all the odds me vs. an inanimate object that don't give a fuck about any of the circumstances mentioned above...I will win.

Three years and two months of playing varsity for team shit show, for a fucking 5 lb pr- five fucking pounds. All the pain and suffering missed time with family, eating, drugs and all the ups and downs of molding my life around training- for FIVE FUCKING pounds. So next time you want to get mad and cry about me talking my shit about the powderlifters, this is why.

It's effortless to be a half-assed anything; I hate when people post the little lame "just getting back to training" - being completely content with never getting any stronger. Also, you see the same types who post their 60- 70 lb pr's cause they gave it some effort for six months, congradu fucking lations. Get back to me when that "gain train" stops. Will, you dare to push knowing you may never improve your number? Hell no those fancy socks get tucked in your top drawer. That belt with your Ig handle will grow dusty in the garage, and your IG will be about fucking birds or photography, you'll go from team Viking warrior to team no filter.

See, for me- I'm going to let this shit kill me, fuck it.
Surgery, hip or knee replacements, kidney and or heart issues? IDGAF, none of that scares me- you know what does? It is sitting on a couch watching wheel of fortune and having to wonder what if, that shit mortifies me. It's my biggest fear; it breaks me down, all the shit I've been through all the shit I've put people through for a fucking four digit number next to my name. I refuse to drown slowly in regret and die having to know I didn't give it my all and then some.

Yeah, I spend a lot of time bagging on the dorks, but for those of you who lay awake at night thinking about your squat, or your bench, or hating your deadlift. For those of you at the red light with your phone out using the calculator jamming numbers together- thinking of every possible scenario. If you've had to shovel food in between gags or had to suck on ice chips cause you couldn't drink. For those who lay alone, cause their significant other felt slighted by your passion. All of you motherfuckers inspire me; it doesn't have to be your number- let yer drive consume you, that's fucking dope.

Passion is like fire; it's mesmerizing and attractive. Until you realize you can't tame the fire, and it'll burn you the closer you get to it. Be fire, if people can't handle the heat- to damn bad. Let that shit burn hot, let the bullshit stoke the flames and burn down every damn thing preventing you from achieving YOUR goals. When it's all said in done it's you in that box, alone- in the end, you lay in that bed plugged to machines, you and only you... handle your fucking business accordingly there's no rewind, no replays no continuance. Go all in or quit, if not what's the fucking point?