The Gospel of Grind
Listen up.
Not everything needs to be monetized. You don’t need to be cemented to your seat. Subject to useless deliverables and eye strain.
You can hustle for 40 years only to end in the same grave. Next to the guy who probably did a lot less. And got by just fine.
Hustle Culture is just being a premium wage cuck. Waiting for orders. To get slapped around. To be told what a good little boy you are.
It is working the factory line faster. Praying you don’t lose a finger. Or five. It’s laying out a red carpet for your boss. As he walks over you. To get his sixth car. While you stretch out on a piss-stained bed. Teeth chattering in the wind. But deathly afraid to switch on the heating.
While you run to the office at 7 AM. To impress your boss. And stay till 9 PM. To impress your co-workers.
You’re telling everyone what a good obedient bitch you are. One that sits. stays. listens to daddy. In the hope of getting a few snacks.
But the company is the furthest thing from daddy.
It is apathetic. It cares not if you are well, wobbly or hungover. It wants deliverables. Delivered everyday. And delivered fresh.
And the “We are a family” nonsense that companies propound. It’s bullshit. I know it. You know it. But nobody calls it out.
Keel over at your desk tomorrow. See if your company does more than sending your body to the morgue.
Then they’ll replace you.
With another sucker. Who won’t complain. Works 24/7. Like you should’ve done.
Till he can’t no more.
And the cycle repeats.
The job was never yours. It was just your turn.
I was trapped in this mire too. Working 12 hour days. Skipping lunch. Saying no to friends. Working till 2 AM. Sending updates that no one read. Or cared about. And what did I get?
Promotions? No.
Salary hikes? No.
Just some heart palpitations. From all the excess coffee. And zero sleep.
The ones that got a raise. And promotions. Didn’t do a fifth of what I did. They showed up at 10. Punched out at 5. They knew the game. I was the idiot.
By now I realized I had followed conmen. Youtubers in rented lambos selling ‘discipline’ and business gurus in $100 suits. Who never owned or managed more than a lemonade stand.
They were all snake oil salesmen. Selling whatever made the waves. They spouted so much bullshit their assholes thought they’d switched places.
And yet I listened to them. Like an eager mutt rubbing up on their owner’s leg.
Now I know the game. Lie, cheat and smile for the LinkedIn photo. I’ll sell my soul for the promotion. Like every Tom, Dick and Harry. And when the culture changes. I’ll whore my remaining self worth for it too. Because the truth is I’m too tired to fight.