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THE BULLSHIT FACTOR
The Bullshit Factor isn’t born out of a simple yawn or the “I need a nap” kind of tired. It erupts from being absolutely done with pretending — done with the masks, the excuses, and acting like our lives don’t stink sometimes. It comes from a place of total exhaustion with the fake, the polished, and the performance of being “fine.” It’s the moment you wake up and recognize a brutal but universal truth: every single one of us has our own unique pile of bullshit. Custom-built. Handcrafted through years of dumb decisions, forced choices, misplaced trust, denial, and pure chaos energy.
We all have that pile. And yes — it smells. From the moment we become responsible for our own decisions, that pile begins to grow. One mistake here, one ego trip there, and one “I definitely knew better but did it anyway” thrown right on top. It doesn’t matter who you are: CEO or broke, church kid or street hustler, college grad or prison number. Everybody has a pile, and every pile produces a stink.
Knowing the smell!
I’ve shoveled enough of my own bullshit to qualify as a world-class manure technician. I know the texture of denial when it’s fresh. I know the weight of regret when it piles up fast. And I know the exact moment the smell of my own excuses becomes so rancid that either I deal with it or drown in it. I’ve learned to recognize the distinct aroma of blame — that sour scent of pointing fingers and playing victim. I can pick out the sharp sting of guilt, the swamp-rot of procrastination, and that nasty undertone of ego that always thinks the pile belongs to someone else.
I’ve stood knee-deep in the fumes of bad choices, broken promises, and self-inflicted chaos. I’ve shoveled through the kind of mess that stains your boots and tries to convince you that you’ll never be clean again. And yet — I’m still shoveling. Still learning. Still converting every steaming heap into fertilizer for something better.
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There’s a moment in every person’s wreckage when you get close enough to the disaster to smell it — not metaphorically, but that raw, sour odor of the bullshit you handcrafted with your own brilliant decisions. And trust me, I know that aroma well. It’s the scent of standing within arm’s distance of your own pile and realizing there’s no one else to blame for the fumes.
I remember staring at one particular booking photo like it was a crime scene and a punchline all at once. “Wow, what an ugly son of a bitch! Like what the hell is even going on with my lip in this book-in photo. I can tell you I was pissed because those US Marshalls seem to enjoy early morning arrests.”
That picture wasn’t just evidence of what I’d done — it was the full-on fragrance of who I had become. But here’s the truth: when you can look at the worst version of yourself, gag a little, and still own the smell? That’s when the pile stops defining you. That’s when shame turns into fuel. You stop pretending the stink came out of nowhere and you start shoveling — not because you want to revisit it, but because you finally believe you’re worth cleaning up.
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