Growing up, my dad’s favorite line used to be, “Everything in moderation.”
What a riot.
One would assume that, after having those particular words-o-wisdom jack-hammered into my brain at least once per week, that I would have turned out, well, moderate.
I’d think moderately, I’d travel moderately, I’d love moderately, and I’d live moderately.
And I definitely would have drank less tequila at the football house that one night in college. Ahem.–
I’m not entirely sure at what point the wires got crossed, but I am decidedly anything but.
I’m extreme. Intense. Passionate to a fault.
I am hard fucking core.
When I decide to do something, you can consider it done.
If I dedicate myself to your project, I’ll blast it into outer space.
If I create something, it will be the best.
And hell–you don’t even want to know what I’m like in a relationship when I’m into it.–
I’ll give you my all, but there’s just one problem with that:
I will, without exception, expect the same thing in return.
I’m demanding of the people in my life. I have high expectations of them. And the reason why I have high expectations of them, is because I have high expectations of myself.
I fool around all the time, but I don’t fuck around. There’s a difference.
If you wanna ride with me, then you ride with me. There are no sidelines. There is no grey area. There’s no room for maybe. I have no time for pussy footing.
If we’re going to do something, then take off your skirt, jump head first into the mud, and let’s do it, for christ’s sake. This applies to my clients. This applies to my colleagues. This applies to my friends. This applies to you. This applies to everyone who engages with me for one reason or another. This even applies to the guy who pulled up to me at the gas station in Philly last night, and asked if I could help him out with gas money–you better believe I made him answer a bunch of ridiculous questions, first, like “What’s your favorite color?” “Rainbow sprinkles–yay or nay?” “Just looking at my face, what do you think my name should be?” “Do you believe in life after love?”
Okay, so I didn’t ask him that last question, but the song is in my head and I couldn’t help it. The point is that if I’m going to give you something of me, then you better give me something of you–even if you’re just asking to bum a buck. We had a nice chat, I threw him a $20 spot and took off.
That’s not the world’s greatest example, but I thought you’d appreciate the imagery. However, at the end of the day it comes down to this: No matter who you’re dealing with, or what you’re doing, give 150,000%–ALWAYS. And expect 150,000% back. When you don’t get it, cut your losses.–
Sorry, dad–I don’t do moderate.
Moderation sets limits for yourself and everyone around you. I don’t do limits, either. I hurdle right over those sons of bitches. One life to live, and one shot to make it what you want. Go big or get the hell out of my face.
I don’t have time for anything less, and frankly, neither do you.
Overdose on passion.
Have a strong opinion.
Get on with it.
Love so much it’s stupid.
Express your every thought.
Be radically unreasonable.
…especially when it comes to the quality of your life.
Scream out your wildest desires in the most blood curdling fashion possible.
And then…act on them.
Ask for what you want.
Or even better–go out there and take it.
Make a fool out of yourself.
Laugh at the serious.
Laugh at yourself.
Laugh at the idiot neighbor with the fanny pack.
Laugh for no reason at all.
Spike everything with vodka.
Be who you came here to be.
Never, ever take less than you’d give.
Give a fuck about something, already.
Give a fuck about yourself.
Just give a fuck, period.
The rest will work itself out.
Unless you’re the one with the fanny pack, in which case, I suggest rethinking your entire existence.
Still spike everything with vodka, though. That’s always good advice.