Casually Compromised - Book 1

Fuck You Pay Me

For entrepreneurs the Chair of Misery is burned into their chest, an ever persistent aspect of who they are- one step away from disaster.

The detox strangely enough was kinda happening.

Its amazing what happens when the one thing you're stuck on leaves town- ya kinda don't feel the urge to club, you want to club. There was a difference.

Much like I never wanted the urge to drink, I wanted to drink. Urge is that compelling feeling, that loose cannon wanting to exploded, urges were bad. They dragged you into dark alleys, places few would go, and you'd get your fix, and feel shitty afterwards, like you lost. Wanting implied a degree of control, I want this, so be it. This was happening to me. The urge wasn't nearly as compelling to me. Sure I felt the draw now and then but I also felt more content, and less super spendy.

What a week.I was hustling. A recent job with a hospital fell through. Largely because like most 200k plus work, its less of what you can do and more of who ya know. I had a decent rep in town, but health care is flat out nearly impossible to do without the network and sucking as many assholes as possible. I wasn't that flexible. The only saving grace from the engagement was that what I envisioned and the number I proposed was now the hoop for anyone else to jump through. So yes I didn't get the gig but it forced my competition to yield to my concept and my budget. I was a small nimble operation, the average big firm in town didn't get outa bed for a client under 600k when it came to healthcare. Them taking on a sub 200k job was insanity. I felt good inside that they'd have to bend to that number. Course as a result whatever they'd make would likely suck big time. The hospital would pay the price in the end, another shitty experience for the ever persistent patient. Yeah for innovation.

Losing a job takes a part of soul. Your countless conversations lost. Your concept, broken. Worst of all, no cash, and you had plans for that cash. Makes me think of the strippers sitting in the Chair of Misery, staring down a stock broker, the glimmer of a nice watch, nursing a fiji water bottle, making chit chat with a fellow colleague and not spending a fucking dime. The gull of that man. Burned to a cinder in the girls mind, this man she would hate for all time, only to be reprised thru the total deception of his soul, she will conquer this man, this flimsy piece of flesh.

Back to the hustle I go. And the pressure is on. This is where things like Vera and the club would normally help me immensely. But I didn't always have club in my life, so what did I do before club? I coped, like an average joe I guess. I had to do the same now. No lap dance would put me back together again- a VIP, tempting, but lately I had more distractions, I had to fend off those trapped in the chat rooms of misery.

The heart of hustle is looking legit while rapidly closing the gap on the possibility you're not.

My delusion insisted there was a direct correlation between VIP's and successful sales cycles. Maybe I was on to something there. I always felt like a good VIP would give me days worth of FUCK YOU PAY ME energy. As if I channeled the stripper in future meetings, strutting around, pointing at diagrams and wireframes with an AS IF aura of certainty. I see it in my mind.

"Look, this is what you want, or you can be losing piece of shit. Up to to you. I'm game for anything..." I would say in a meeting with a future client.

"Parker, we see your vision, we just think..." the client would say, just as I would cut them off.

".. yeah see you're thinking, that's the problem, you're hiring me to think remember?!" I'd bold thrust myself on the table, slinking across.. wait a sec, maybe not that. Close this vision out.

Strippers had magnetism, startup hustlers had it too. I had the reputation for that already. The amplification of the VIP and or the woman that made me feel like millionaire, that was powerful. Course it came at a price- but I'd trade a few VIPS for 250k in month sales closures any day. The hustlers in the club would surely reward my efforts, at my own expense.