Just F*cking Do It

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My husband delivered a keynote one time to an audience of startups and technology nerds. His advice to them was “stop talking about it and just f*cking do it”. Everyone laughed and nodded. This happens a lot in technology and business. People spend a huge amount of time talking about what they are going to do; pontificating, planning, researching, and discussing – but then fall down on execution.  So things either never get off the ground or they lose steam shortly after they launch.

The exact same thing happens in our lives when it comes to creating change, starting something new, or embarking on a personal goal attempt. We often build things up in our minds and make them appear way bigger or more complicated than they actually are. If I would have thought about running for 30 minutes without stopping before I began running on day one, I would have given up or possibly not even started running. But here I am 9 weeks later and running has stuck for me. First I had to be okay with 3 minutes, then 5 minutes, then 10 and 20 and so on. It was a gradual build up that all began with me just f*cking doing it. Every day that I run, I don’t think about anything other than what is in front of me at that moment. I put my shoes on and head out the door thinking only about putting one foot in front of the other, that’s it. And I do my best to apply this same logic to pretty much everything I work on. It helps tremendously. I am the type of person who gets completely overwhelmed if I think about everything at once, so for my own sanity I have to break it down. And just doing it helps because you take the first step, and then the second, and then the third and before you know it you’ve accomplished something.

Not all things work out just because we start doing them, but at least you can say that you actually did something. Talking about doing something and actually doing it are two very different things. So just f*cking do it no matter what that thing is for you.

Prose Stimulus

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I was going through a period of intense reclusiveness. Most days I ignored my phone, deleted emails without reading them, and even disregarded a few knocks on my door. I had a book due in exactly 45 days and hadn’t typed so much as a first sentence. The impending deadline, which often served as a motivator for me to finish my projects, was now making me paralyzed.

On day 40, after 5 days of not showering, drinking nothing but single malt scotch, and smoking several packs of cigarettes, I decided that my house might have been part of the problem. I looked around and surveyed the dim lighting, thick hanging smoke, and dart holes in the wall (where I had previously posted a photograph of my agent, until it had so many holes in it, it fell to the ground).

I decided to go to a hot yoga class. Maybe that was just what I needed to get centered. Maybe ideas would flow freely through my body as I did the downward facing dog in a 104 degree room with sweaty new age hippies.

The room was unbearable!! We hadn’t even started yet and I was already pouring with sweat. My sweat smelled like scotch and cigarettes. I think the guy in front of me wanted a lick because he kept looking back and smiling. He was very good looking and had a great body, almost too good to be straight.

“Bisexual?” I wondered.

After the class, where I had managed to sweat a week’s worth of scotch and cigs out of my body, he came up and introduced himself. I noticed immediately, that he had a hard on. Since I was pretty sure that he was aware of my absence of cock, I decided that he was straight or bi, and that either one was fine with me!

“Have you been here before?” he asked

“That’s so cliche” I shot back

He laughed and said “Well how would you like me to begin then?”

Still a little dizzy and possibly not sober I said “How about: Let’s go fuck”

He laughed nervously as I stared at him stone cold in the face “You… You’re serious aren’t you?”

“I never know” I said “stuff just comes out of my mouth, and by the time it’s out, it’s too late to stop it”

“Do you like martini’s?”

“I like anything with more than 14% alcohol” I said

We walked out the front door together with knowing smiles on our faces. First we were going to go through the motions and have a drink together before we fucked, because that was one of the steps on the ladder of sexual attraction. I sensed he wasn’t comfortable fucking me anonymously, although his penis staunchly disagreed.

We went to a place called the Green Martini and sat in a corner, extremely close to each other. Being that it was 3 o-clock in the afternoon and happy hour hadn’t started yet, we had the place to ourselves.

I smiled “So… David, what do you do other than picking up stressed out writers at hot yoga class?”

“Well – I work with senior citizens with stage 2 cancer. I help them with their diets and exercise regiment… And I’d like to think, extend the length of their lives.”

“Oh nice… Jesus and Satan are having a martini together”

He looked at me sideways and said “Well if you’re Satan then I will gladly go to hell in a handbasket”

After a few martinis we decided that we should go to his place, mine wasn’t fit for living, nevermind company. I just told him that I lived too far and that I had an angry pit bull who might tear his face off. The truth was, my place was closer than his, I had a cat not a dog, and I just didn’t want him to see the carnage that had been taking place at my house over the last week.

He lived in an impossibly well-decorated condo by the lake. Open concept, modern, and impeccably clean. No sign of a woman either, which was good. I looked for shoes, accessories, or anything feminine. We shared another drink out on his patio, this time, our drink was secondary to the reason we were both there. He took my glass from me, stared deep into my eyes and pressed his anatomy into my hip.

We never did finish our drink. We spent the afternoon and early evening in his tempurpedic bed.

I left around 7:30.

Just as I was walking down his hall, he shouted “Hey wait… I don’t have your number”.

I thought about it for a second. The sex was good. He was hot. But relationships… Ugh! So not my thing.

“Give me yours” I shouted back.

I entered his number into my phone (for real) but never ended up calling. It turns out, David was just what I needed to finish my book. I went home that night, sexed out and exhausted, but more motivated than I had been in months. I spent the next two weeks writing and smoking. Only breaking for snacks and bathroom breaks.

My agent called me on day 44.

“Is it done?”

“All done” I smiled

“Great! Send it over! What’s it about?”

“It’s about a self-destructive, sexaholic writer who tries to live a normal life, but can’t.”

“Sounds familiar” he laughed

I hung up and sighed a huge sigh of relief. No more pressure for at least another year!

My blackberry beeped. It was a text message, from who I can only assume was David.

It said: Found You! I’m calling you tonight!

I groaned (half in agony, half in anticipation) as I thought ” Well, it’s not all bad… Maybe I can get another book out this year.”