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Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes...
(5 minute read.)
Do different. Less.
And an HST-style variant:
The personal demons and business catastrophes have merged into one savage psychic hurricane that's ripping through my nervous system like a chainsaw through wet cardboard. We're talking full-spectrum physical revolt here—anxiety attacks, gut-twisting nausea, chest pains that feel like ice picks, intestinal warfare that would make a combat medic weep.
One crisis at a time? Sure, I could ride that bronco. Something fresh and new? Maybe I'd have the juice to handle it. But that's not the hand I've dealt myself, friend. Not even close.
Time for a savage restructuring of the whole doomed enterprise… personal and professional alike.
The personal sector needs a massive injection of actual pleasure, real human joy, the kind of thing I apparently forgot existed somewhere between the third and fourteenth crisis.
The business end? A ruthless execution spree. Ninety percent of these godforsaken projects get the axe tomorrow. I'm retreating to a handful… maybe three, maybe five… of the ventures that might actually generate cold hard cash instead of warm sentimental feelings.
In some alternate universe where I'm flush with money and resources, sure, I could keep the vanity projects and charity cases alive. But this isn't that universe, and I'm not that man.
So here we are: The ship has struck the berg, and it's lifeboat time. Stay aboard and I'm going straight to the bottom.
The guilt and regret? Oh, they'll stick around like unwelcome houseguests…all that time and money burned on projects that should've been strangled in their cribs.
I probably haven't hit bottom yet, but here's the thing: changing course now means the descent gets shorter and less catastrophic than the full kamikaze nosedive I'm currently riding.
So there we are…
Each voice illuminates the problem from a different angle. Same iceberg, different maps for navigating away from it.
Thompson provides the dark humor and rebellious energy to face the chaos. Cathartic release, the permission to acknowledge just how insane the situation actually is without minimizing it. There's power in naming the chaos for what it is, in not pretending it's manageable when it clearly isn't. Plus that dark humor creates just enough psychological distance to keep you from drowning in it.
Godin strips away the drama and hands me the blueprint, tactical clarity to actually act. No wasted motion, no therapeutic hand-wringing… just clear-eyed assessment and actionable steps. 'This is broken. Here's what you do about it. Now move.'
Together? Thompson lets me feel it fully, Godin gets me moving decisively. One validates the severity, the other cuts through to the solution.
Where I am right now, I don't need to philosophize about the wound, I need to acknowledge it's real (Thompson) and then stop the bleeding (Godin).
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