Influencers told me so

Journal Entry, Day 0: I pledged my commitment  

8:00 pm: I gingerly place my phone on the table, kneel, cross one arm over my chest, and recite my holy pledge to TikTok. “I hereby dedicate my life to discipline, dedication, and daily vlogs.” I whisper. “I swear on all my socials, that I will conquer what cannot be conquered, arise at the crack of dawn, and suffer harder than anyone ever has. If I fail, you can have my followers.”  

8:10 pm: A divine trumpet echoes from my phone, playing the ice-cream truck theme song. Heart pounding, I whip out my debit card and shoot to my feet. There it is: the sacred notification. Yes, I passed! I have gained the trust of the all-knowing lord who figured out the secrets to eternal hustle; turning trauma into a six-figure business for just $200/week. Goodbye, old, pathetic meat-sack. Hello, future hustle knight.  

Journal Entry, Day 1: My first day as Lord Influencer’s disciple.  

4:00 am: As promised, I wake to Gunnery Sergeant Hartman yelling at max volume: “GET UP YOU WORTHLESS MAGGOT.” If you aren’t terrified the moment you wake up, you’re basically condemned to perpetual unemployment.  

4:10 am: I submerge my face into an ice bath full of lemons and cucumbers for mental clarity. Mistakenly, I opened my eyes. A swarm of lemon juice aggressively clarified that pain is temporary, and gains are forever. Thank you, lemons.  

4:14 am: I Tape my mouth shut for proper breathing technique. Instead of using the special $50 tape, I use duct tape. A layer of skin removed, but a jolt of adrenaline wakes me up faster than coffee. Peak efficiency is achieved.  

 4:30 am: “Dedication is discipline”. I decided on 2000 pushups, sit ups and squats daily as proof. Not for discipline, but to bully my body out of its dad bod and into something Lord Influencer would repost. If it doesn’t hurt, it won’t go viral. 

5:10 am: The infamous 10k run was marketed as Influencer’s “blast-off moment” in self-improvement. I picture myself gliding through the streets, like in a Nike ad. In reality? My form resemble Prince’s from Run with the Wind: arms flailing, back hunched, and legs dragging like they’re filled with cement. Still, I push forward as a powerful war cry filled my ears yelling “Who’s gonna carry the boats?”  

6:00 am: The course said to end with a cold plunge, so I dump a bag of ice in the tub and climbed in with my breakfast: cup noodles, upgraded with two raw eggs. Influencer has steak and avocado toast. I have salt-broth and regret.    

7:00 am: The “Hustler’s Guide” written by Influencer promises I’ll be rich by Friday. Step 1: Own a phone. Check. Step 2: Post motivational videos. Check. Step 3: Recruit others into the movement. Wait, why? Step 4: Earn money through recruitment. A pyramid scheme? Nah, more like the cycle of wealth. 

5:30 pm: First comment: “Scam, get a real job.” I respond like Lord Influencer said, by posting five more videos and replying with “Success is louder than hate.” Ironic, because I haven’t heard from success all day.  

7:00 pm: For dinner, I chew on some grass-fed, raw, organic, gluten-free, dairy-free, vegan, non-processed beef jerky which tastes like burnt rubber seasoned with a bit of disappointment. Lord Influencer once said that it helped him gain aura and reverse bank fees, so I swallow and wait. I choke so hard chunks of beef jerky fly out of my nostrils. Massive aura loss, but at least my nasal passages are clear.   

Journal Entry, Day 2-6: Still following Lord Influencer’s advice, but I’m slowly losing it.  

For the next five days, the cycle prevails. 

4:00 am: “YOU’RE A FAILURE!” Sergeant Hartman screams. By day three, his voice doesn’t invoke fear, rather annoyance, like your fifth-grade teacher when you ask them “Can I go to the bathroom?” “I don’t know, CAN you?” Instead of achieving eternal hustle, I unlock a migraine and a strong urge to chuck my alarm out the window. 

4:50 am: It doesn’t matter how dedicated my mind is, my body will go on strike after the 200-rep mark. Each muscle aches like I’ve been hit by a Bugatti; I get it. No pain, no gain. But my gains are mostly emotional damage. 

5:20 am: On day 3, my aching body and a lingering calf cramp sends SOS signals to my brain, “Who’s gonna carry the boats?” Not me, I’m barely holding myself together.   

5:30 am: My running form deteriorates from Prince to a zombie from the Walking Dead. What’s next, a drunk sloth crawling towards a jungle gym? At least that’d go viral. 

2:00pm: The Hustler’s Guide was the cruelest lie. I followed every step Lord Influencer preached; spammed TikTok’s, DM’ed strangers, and even replied to every hate comment with a corny motivational quote. I earned enough for one cup-noodle in SIX DAYS. If I got a dollar for every hate comment, maybe I could afford a Bugatti. And maybe, I’ll use it to run myself over.  

6:00pm: I spit out the beef jerky. It isn’t reversing bank fees, just my stomach—into a crime scene. I can practically hear his voice whisper “I’m not mad, just disappointed.” Honestly? Same. 

Journal Entry, Day 7: Rebirth 

4:00 am: The moment Hartman’s voice makes a squeak; I instinctively snatch my alarm and chuck it out my window. Ignoring the car alarm blaring underneath, I go back to bed.  

10:00 am: Lord Influencer somehow hacks into my phone and starts yelling at me through the Notes app. I panic, shut off my phone and flush it down the toilet. I call that a spiritual detox. 

3:00 pm: I order a new phone. For an additional $499/week, I can unlock a course to the “Silent-FittKing” no noise, no beef jerky, just gains—a jacked king forged through dead silence.  

I swear an oath of secrecy and buy the course. 

Cover Image: Mondo H.