The Hustle Gospel
You don't start by selling your soul. That's amateur hour thinking.
You start with seventeen Chrome tabs open at 4 AM. Gary Vee screaming about gratitude on 2x speed. Tim Ferriss's morning routine. Naval's tweetstorms. A Medium article about how this twenty-three-year-old made six figures dropshipping. LinkedIn motivational porn. Hacker News. TechCrunch. Your bank balance in another tab—the number you refresh obsessively like it might change through sheer will.
You start with bulletproof coffee that tastes like butter and delusion. With affirmations in the bathroom mirror while your reflection looks back with eyes that already know the ending.
You start with your boys from fifth grade. Back when Alex's biggest hustle was trading Pokémon cards. When Corey could still smile without Xanax.
Click.
First domino tips.
After that, gravity does all the work.
Alex's pupils are blown wide. Not drugs. Not yet. Just pure, uncut capitalism flooding his neural pathways.
"Listen." His breath comes hot, metallic. Red Bull and yesterday's Adderall with a hint of something rotting underneath. "I found it. The gap."
The garage fluorescents flicker. Makes everyone look like they're underwater. Drowning in slow motion.
He's got that look. Same one from seventh grade when he sold his sister's Ritalin. Same one when he convinced you to help him steal copper wire from construction sites. You can track his evolution in misdemeanors: candy bars, fake IDs, pyramid schemes, and now—
"Pet fitness trackers."
He spreads napkin sketches across the workbench like a surgeon laying out instruments. Crude drawings of dogs with Fitbits.
"DogFit."
The laugh tears out of you. Involuntary. But then—
"Ninety-five billion." Each word drops like a hammer on an anvil. "Americans spent ninety-five billion on pets last year."
Ca-ching. Ca-ching. Ca-ching.
His smile isn't human anymore. It's a profit margin that grew teeth.
"Everything's about scale, brother. Start small. Own everything."
The prototype sits between you: a tangle of wishful thinking held together with electrical tape and delusion. You can already see the failure. Taste it like copper in your mouth.
But you say yes.
Because that's what friends do.
They hold hands and jump off cliffs together.