The Secret Blog. No Promises

The Beer, Wine, and Trust Equation

I don’t bond easily, and I certainly don’t trust just anyone. But if you drink beer or wine, you’re already halfway to earning my respect. There’s something about sharing a cold beer or a bottle of red that feels grounding—a ritual of honesty, humility, and just the right amount of vulnerability. It’s like a paperless agreement that we’re both flawed but here to celebrate that. Hard booze, though? Different story. It’s not about the drink but what comes with it. I’ve seen too many people lose themselves to the bottle, eyes glazed over, forgetting the world around them. And don’t get me started on those who get drunk—that loud, reckless kind of drunk that turns a conversation into chaos. No, trust comes in moderation. If you can sip slowly, savor the taste, and keep your head clear, you’re the kind of person I might stick around for. And that’s saying a lot because, let’s face it, trust is rarer than a vintage wine in a convenience store fridge.

Grudges Are Self-Care

Forgiveness is overrated unless I'm spectacularly wrong, a luxury for those who don’t understand the value of holding a grudge. See, grudges aren’t about bitterness—they’re about boundaries. They’re a reminder that someone crossed a line and that you’re not about to hand them a free pass to do it again. Think of it as mental bookkeeping, debts unpaid, lessons unlearned. Sure, the self-help gurus will tell you to “let it go,” but what they don’t understand is that holding on can be cathartic, even empowering like the sort of clay, experience is made of. A grudge doesn’t have to consume you; it can sit quietly in the back of your mind like a library book, filed under “Never Again.” And when you see that person, you don’t have to smile and pretend everything’s fine. You owe them nothing, and that’s the kind of freedom they don’t teach you in yoga class. Grudges are my way of saying, “I love & respect myself too much to forget.”

The Beauty of Being Broke

Most of the time, I’m broke. Not in a tragic, “homeless” kind of way, but in a way that feels…liberating. Being broke forces you to be creative, resourceful, and, let’s be honest, a little reckless. It’s simple, stupid, and courageous all at once. When you’ve got nothing to lose, every small victory feels like winning the lottery. Motivation becomes your currency, and you learn to spend it wisely. You start seeing potential everywhere—in the forgotten skills you have, in the cheap thrills you once overlooked, and in the people who genuinely want to help without expecting anything in return. Being broke sharpens your vision. It strips life down to its essentials and makes you realize that most of the things you thought you needed were just distractions. The process is brutal, sure, but the outcome? A masterpiece built on grit and sheer willpower. And that’s a kind of wealth no paycheck can buy.

The Hustle Culture Fix

Hustle culture isn’t the villain everyone makes it out to be. It’s not toxic; it’s just mismanaged. The problem isn’t the hustle itself but the way it’s structured—a hamster wheel disguised as ambition. Imagine if we flipped the script. What if hustle culture became a symphony, where every player knew their role and was valued for it? It could be fruitful, rewarding, and—dare I say—fun. The smallest voices, the ones often drowned out, could redefine the terms. “Paradise” and “absolute bliss” wouldn’t just be words; they’d be goals. The key is in the balance: compensation that matches contribution, respect that’s mutual, and an environment that nurtures creativity rather than burning it out. Hustle culture has potential, but it needs an overhaul. It’s also not about working less; it’s about working smarter, with purpose and dignity. And maybe we’d all stop running on fumes and start running on inspiration.

The Art of Giving Up

Giving up is underrated. People treat it like failure, but in reality, it’s an essential part of growth. Think about it, every time you let go of something, you make room for something else. Giving up isn’t quitting; it’s trading. You trade what no longer serves you for what could elevate you. It’s not easy—letting go of a dream, a person, or even a version of yourself you once clung to. But enlightenment like sex, isn’t about holding on; it’s about knowing when to release. I’ve given up on countless things: careers, friendships, habits. And every time, it felt like tearing off a piece of myself. But those empty spaces? They’re where the light gets in. They’re where new ideas, new people, and new opportunities take root. So, yeah, I’ve given up. Not because I’m weak, but because I’m strong enough to know when it’s time to move on.

The Hans Teeuwen Experiment

I’m working on a new writing style, and honestly, it might flop. It’s inspired by Hans Teeuwen, a master of chaos and absurdity, but with a twist. His comedy thrives on dynamics—the sudden shifts between calm and chaos, the setups that lull you into complacency before hitting you with a punchline that feels like a slap. Translating that to writing? A challenge, to say the least. Words don’t have the advantage of tone or timing, so the punchline has to hit harder, sharper, and faster. It’s like trying to build a rollercoaster on paper, where the reader feels every twist and turn without the luxury of visuals or sound. It’s risky, sure, but that’s the point. Great art doesn’t come from playing it safe. So here I am, balancing on the edge of absurdity, hoping to create something that makes you laugh, think, and maybe—just maybe—question everything. And if it flops? Well, at least I’ll have a good story to tell.

Here is a Sneak-peak:
I’m sitting there, shirtless, one sock loose and the second missing, holding a bottle of cheap red wine like it’s the only thing tethering me to reality. In front of me, possibly a Macbook half-filled with not so sticky notes that look like the rantings of a lunatic. It smells like burnt toast, but I haven’t eaten all day. My pen hovers, and for a moment, it feels like I’m dissecting my own brain, peeling back the layers. The words start to flow, rough and raw, like a wound that won’t close. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’m laughing—not out loud, just the kind of quiet, personal madness you don’t share at dinner parties.

I guess that's the most elegant way to describe myself taking a dump in the comfort of a summer night vacation house in the woods.

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