And so there I was.
Mouth filled with a mixture of dirt and blood. Eyes swollen shut. But more importantly, my romanticised notion of ‘happily-ever-after’ was shattered.
What was I thinking?
There’s a reason they call me twenty-something. The 10k-er’s words rung out in my head.
“Welcome to the pits kid-Welcome to the pits kid-Welcome to the pits kid-”
And that fucking smile.
What can I say? I tried. I got up. I fought back. Well. Who am I kidding? To say I fought back is over-the-top flattering seeing I didn’t land one punch. The Rocky-Balboa-esque conclusion I was hoping for turned into a-nightmare-on-elm-street-part-VI pretty quick.
So here I was. Floored.
I lay there feeling sorry for myself for a while. Felt a bit like Jackie Moon in that dumpster. I think I was embarrassed more than anything. It wasn’t the pain that kept me routed to the floor. It was the feigned sympathy I was about to get…
Apologetic pats on the back.
The, “Ah well, at least you tried eh?”
My right cheek was still dejectedly glued to the dirt floor until there was nothing left to do but get up. Go home you pussy.
But there was still a deep pang in my heart.
It hurt.
Trying to be a part of something you’ll never be a part of.
What was so different about them? Was it their writing ability? Their writing styles? Were they ‘idea’ men? Why can’t I emulate them?
I daydreamed what that would be like for a few moments, thousands of people dripping off your every word…
I’m not proud of this moment, but 3 doors down, If I can be like that — rather desperately — leaked into my head. Who am I?
Enough.
ENOUGH.
FUCK.
Wallowing in self-pity. Dreaming. Hoping. This is why I’m bottom of the food chain.
I re-joined the land of the living and then researched the 1k-ers, the 10k-ers and the 100k-ers. I followed them, I read their pieces, the content that had made them who they were.
‘Know your enemy’ Sun Tzu
It’s fair to say, for the most part, the content was good. Detailed. Interesting. They liked to make lists and bite size articles that accommodated commitment from commitment-phobes. And let’s not forget catchy, dramatic titles. Most importantly though, they were consistent. Day after day, month after month, year after year. Posts galore. Hundreds, sometimes thousands.
Some of it was tripe though, phoned in performances with 2 seconds of thought that still got thousands of everything that I had none of.
The more I read the more I was convinced.
I can do this.
I CAN DO THIS.
Battle moments need battle music.
I found a song from the Kill Bill Vol. 1 [OST] #10 — Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood you know that tune when the Bride and O-Ren Ishii face-off at the end of film.
I psyched myself up.
I felt belief surge through me like a living organism.
I awoke the next morning with one thing in mind.
The pits.
That motherfucking 10k-er.
Big breakfast. 100 push-ups.
“I can do this.”
“I CAN DO THIS.”
