Today marks the end of my 16-week cut. I’ve tried “cutting” before but it is the first time I did so counting calories and tracking macros. Coming from a 9-month bulk (which was also my first time counting and tracking), I kinda went too fast, too soon and got a little too fluffy to be considered “hoe-ready.” As such the cut took longer than I’d like, and I couldn’t get as lean as I wanted without sacrificing strength, a dying metabolism, and all those hard-earned gainz. But alas the earth is in danger again of being destroyed by haters from another planet and the results are in!
I kept some of my gains, got rid of most of the flab, and now I am ready once more to pack on some serious muscle mass—that is, some super saiyan muscle mass!
From the beginning I’ve always had a hard life (please reference pic to the left).
Born in the dark recesses of the third-world, in the foreign-exploited planet of Vegeta, people have always wanted to take advantage of my cuteness for their own malign and evil purposes. To counteract this depraved ploy—even if it meant violating the tenets of the warrior bloodline that runs in my veins—I ate a lot of meatballs to render myself (for a lack of a better, more precise word) “unfuckable.”
During this stage in my life, my mother told me that I slowly disappeared from the usual family photos. Indeed I was mutating, and not in a good way. And even though I’ve entered combat sports, ran and lifted weights, I still kept my flabby physique. This is because the follies of my boyhood (the yolo-to-the sunset attitude) kept me from accessing the full potential of my warrior genes and the potent powers of the pimp juice.
And now that I’ve become an author (or whatever else I am at the moment), and coming into the third-act of my life, I want to prove myself once again. I want to get the things I’ve never had and become the person I’ve never been. And in order to do that I have to do things I’ve never done. I have to follow from the footsteps of the greats—those who have achieved what I want to achieve, the type of persons who are capable of generating awe, inspiration, and most importantly, envy.
Today people are reluctant to give themselves to the whims of devotional ecstacies. There are always haters looking to vulgarize and “expose” someone—“Oh, he’s using roids! Oh, she had plastic surgery! Oh, the fraudulence, the anguish, the pain!” —as though such imperfections will discredit hard work and accomplishments. Now granted there are frauds, but why would anyone choose to concentrate on that? What will that do to your life, your problems, your aspirations? Nothing. Just jerking yourself off. Because the reality is, the world never had your best interest in the first place. You just chose to believe otherwise because of convenience and righteous entitlement.
I am not perfect and I am perfectly fine with that. I just choose to shut the fuck up, show some respect, and concentrate on the things within my control: like myself and what I do.
Within a year, evil alien fucks are coming to destroy the planet. By putting myself out there, I hope to inspire the earth’s heroes, to resuscitate the dreams that people have suffocated, the endeavors they have forgotten, and the realities they have relinquished because of shame—shame which in truth is conformity, an acceptance of defeat and helplessness.
But now there is no time for that. We got one year to train. Get fast. Get stronger. Pack on some power and mass to defeat the invaders.
Time is ticking, opportunities disappearing.
No more procrastinating and messing around.
Be shameless, be ruthless.