What the hell even motivates me? Honestly, I sat down to figure it out like, "Let me have this deep, soul-searching moment" and what do I come up with? Absolutely nothing. Nada. Zilch. It’s like, most people have this magical, built-in motivation that just keeps them crushing life every day, and I’m over here trying to figure out why the only thing I’ve crushed recently is a family-sized bag of mawembe.

So yeah, here I am, an hour ago, having a little therapy session with myself, trying to find out what really gets me going. Spoiler alert: still clueless. People always seem to know their thing, right? Like, “Oh, my success motivates me” or “I’m driven by my passion.” That’s cute. Meanwhile, I’m sitting here like, “Wait, I’m supposed to have one of those?” Thought this revelation would be like a spark, but instead, I’m out here staring at the wall like a fucking lunatic.

Now, let’s talk about my little five-dollar investment into OpenAI. Yep, I actually paid five shilling multipled by one hundred and thirty eight kenyan shillings hoping this damn AI would unlock some secret for me. Yeah, 'cause that’s how life works pay a robot to fix you, right? Turns out, it’s not that simple. But hey, five dollars well spent on existential crisis fuel! Why not? This shit is diabolical. I'm over here searching for quantum answers, and all I get is the emotional equivalent of getting a you will hate me for this text after a crappy day.

And as if things weren’t bad enough, let’s throw in that family reunion from last week. My cousin the one who looks like a walking advertisement for mediocrity somehow made me feel like the human embodiment of a sad trombone sound. Thanks, bitch, just what I needed. So, what did I do? Naturally, I retreated into loner mode, trying to “better myself.” Classic move.

Oh, and then there’s my all-time favorite pastime: sending out the old “Hey, stranger!” text to exes like an absolute clown. Why do I do this? Honestly, it’s like I expect some miracle response, like we’re going to hold hands, skip off into the sunset, and forget the whole disaster that was our relationship. Yeah, right. Instead, I get ghosted or hit with something so cold, I’d swear I’m dating Elsa. And you know what happens next? Boom I’m suddenly fucking focused. I go into grind mode, all motivated... by being ignored. Like, am I out here playing the world’s weirdest game of emotional dodgeball or what?

And then it hits me: wait a second. I’m a fucking masochist. That’s it. That’s the plot twist. I thought maybe I’d have some noble drive like “Oh, success keeps me going,” but nah, it’s rejection. It’s failure. It’s the emotional equivalent of getting slapped in the face and being like, “Yes, please, may I have another one on the left "?, Jesus son of Joseph.

So yeah, here I am thinking I’m supposed to be like those normal people who are driven by money, power, pussy or ambition. But no, turns out I’m just Chuck Rhoades Jr., living for the pain, thriving on the hits. And honestly? It’s kind of hilarious and i guess it feels so good to me. I keep getting up, ready for round two, like, “Let’s go!” because somewhere deep inside, I must just love getting knocked down. Who knew?

At the end of the day, fuck the whole idea that motivation has to look a certain way. Like, really? Motivation’s not some shiny, Instagram-worthy mantra it’s messy, it’s weird, and for me, apparently, it involves getting emotionally dunked on and coming back for more. But hey, whatever works, right? If my drive comes from getting kicked in the metaphorical nuts, then so be it. At least it’s something. Fuck AI