I guess it hit me in the bookstore today. I was scanning book covers that popped out at me, homework given by my publisher - to find some book designs that I gravitated toward so they could incorporate my taste into the design of my very first published book, Transparency. My book isn’t even written yet and they’re already working on the cover. As I stared at all the polished books, I felt like an outsider. All these established authors. I’m just a blogger who started a Tumblr because I chose the Macbook instead of the 4 Runner when my parents wanted to help me through my divorce. I felt like the scrub who hopped the fence to a party he wasn’t invited to. I guess I’ve always felt that way. I joke about being the almost guy. Most of my life, I’ve almost done a lot of things. But never really done anything. Well today, I thought if I do nothing else in this world, my words will be on bookshelves early next year. My words will have made it into the end zone. Finally, after being on the bench for so long.

Okay, stop. If you read me, you’ve heard this energy before. This self defecating bullshit that I default to. I’m over it. I’m 42. It’s not cute anymore. No more fucking hiding in a time machine that doesn’t come back. It’s an old story. I need to stop whining like a little bitch and start walking with some certainty. I talk about this stuff. I coach people through it. But I guess it’s easier to type “change the temperature of the room” on an old typewriter and Instagram it than to actually do it.

I almost died last week. I was two hundred and twenty reps into the first workout of the CrossFit Open, doing burpees over a barbell when I saw Jesus. He was holding a clipboard and counting my reps. He no repped me and called me a pussy. Nothing on my body worked. But I managed to throw it over the bar and land on the other side like a sack of wet potatoes. A few times before the twenty minutes expired. What’s my point? I did this because I believed that I could beat my previous score from a few days before when I thought I almost died again. Actually, that’s a lie. I didn’t believe it fully. But I did enough to enter the long dark tunnel. And some where in the tunnel, I made a choice to not stop. To keep going because I’ve come too far to stop. To burn the boats. To either live or die on the island.

My CrossFit friends think I run a pyramid scheme. They have no idea what I do. A year ago, I wrote down my vision board into my phone while inhaling a slice of pizza. Here it is.

  • I’m a New York Times best seller.
  • My minimum rate for speaking engagements is 15K
  • SHFT is the Uber of self help and the biggest life coaching platform in the world.
  • I have my own talk show called The Angry Therapist
  • Flow houses video courses staring the best athletes in the world.
  • I have a house in the hills with a Korean barbecue in the backyard.
  • I find my soulmate.

As I type this, I am slightly embarrassed. Because they’re big things. I know that. And the almost guy in me doesn’t believe he can accomplish them. I also feel like an asshole putting it out there. I know I’m shooting high. But I have to make a choice now. Today. I’m somewhere in the middle of the tunnel. Either I stop or finish. All or nothing. Nothing is no longer a choice. And either is I don’t know. All is all I have.

Santa taking a piss was one of the book covers I chose and emailed to my marketing peeps. I have no idea why I picked it. It just popped out at me. But now that I look at it, I think I know.

What Santa sets out to do every year is pretty fucking ambitious.

But even Santa takes a piss.

Even Santa has tunnels.

Even Santa has to make a choice.

Before he changes the world.

-Angry

Author of “I Used To Be A Miserable F*CK” and “Single. on Purpose.” IG: theangrytherapist