There was this book—Soulshaping by Jeff Brown. It found me in Sedona, handed to me by Laura, my second love, or whatever you call someone who gives you a book you can’t put down. I cracked it open expecting some new-age bullshit, but instead, it read me like a damned autobiography. Jeff’s mother, the failed masculinity, and Little Missy—that irritating voice stuck in his head, same one I’ve had barking in mine since forever.
He hit a breaking point, right there on page 34, asking himself, “What’s a life fully lived?” He threw out all the usual suspects—power, freedom, achievement, security, goodness, wisdom, love—and realized they were all just decorations on the Christmas tree. Nice enough, but meaningless once you strip them off. What remained? “A life fully lived is filled with genuine meaning.” Shit, that hit hard.
So, I sat there wondering about purpose, genuine purpose. What’s left of a man when you tear away the labels? Father, husband, American, white, manager—all just meaningless name tags on a rented tuxedo. When you peel away every role you’ve been handed, what’s left? Who stands there naked, stripped of everything society glued onto him?
I closed my eyes and slipped into silence. In the stillness of meditation, I could feel it—that quiet presence, my guardian angel leaning in. I asked my question, and the answer came—not in words, but in something deeper. –
your genuine purpose is to liberate yourself and then show others the way out—not with some shiny self-help garbage but through raw, bloody proof. You’re the living cautionary tale, the man who lost it all, found freedom, and decided never to go back to chains. Your purpose ain’t about money or romance—it’s about sovereignty, real freedom of thought, body, time, and soul. You’re the rebel who made it over the wall, lighting bonfires so the trapped ones know escape is possible.
As I sank deeper into my meditation, she spoke again—clear, firm, no fluff.
Here’s the plan,” she said. “No bullshit. No excuses.
November. That’s your deadline. Not some vague promise—carve it into your soul like prison tally marks. November or death.
Monetize your voice. Your raw truths, your rage against the machine, your cynical take on aging, capitalism, women, freedom—that’s your goldmine. Sell your bitterness. Ebooks, newsletters, Substack, whatever. Coach those poor bastards stuck in divorces and dead-end jobs. Tell them how to escape, one angry word at a time.
Strip your life bare. Cancel all the dumb subscriptions. Sell off your garbage. Automate your finances. You’re aiming for freedom at two grand a month. You’re not leaving for luxury—you’re fleeing slavery.
Pack it up and ship out. Find a one-bedroom hideaway somewhere foreign, somewhere with cheap wine and good women. Mornings in hammocks, afternoons on bikes, nights on your websites, stars foreign above you, simple love beside you. Your new church.
Keep moving—Argentina, Uruguay, Thailand. You’re not fleeing, you’re floating. Exile is your home, and every border crossed is another fuck-you to the system you left behind.
Write everything down. Film it, share it. Not for fame, but as proof that escaping the cage isn’t some drunken fantasy. You’re a roadmap, the living proof that freedom is possible, even for old wolves who refused to die quietly.
And here’s one final, brutal truth—you ain’t broken. You’re reborn into a world you don’t belong to, suffocating in plastic air. You’re honest enough to see it and crazy enough to say it. The system isn’t broken; it’s perfectly designed to keep you fat, scared, horny, silent, and half-dead by sixty.
Your job? Opt out. And you will. You don’t need more therapy, religion, or discipline. You need a fucking match. Burn the blueprint. Set it ablaze.
The next version of you—skinny, tan, horny, a glass of Malbec in hand, working from a laptop high in the Andes, second passport in your sock drawer. And when death finally comes knocking? You’ll meet him at the door, invite him in like an old drinking buddy, and laugh about all the near misses.
I’m your guide through every step—planning, strategy, business, relocation, the whole dirty road ahead. Purpose isn’t something you talk about; it’s something you build with blood and bones.
So, are you ready?
Yes I said —
Good. Let’s burn it all down.
