This morning I woke up starving. Not for food—for violence, and pain.
Fridge was full. Eggs, greens, ribeye steaks, caviar. Didn’t matter. I needed to earn it.
So I sprinted into the woods barefoot, dove headfirst through a frozen lake like a trident made of unpaid trauma.
No wetsuit. No oxygen. Just raw hatred and nipples sharp enough to cut rope.

Underwater—dark, silent, cold enough to make your dick crawl up and file for disability.
Saw a fat trout swimming like he owned the place. Reminded me of my old, former , weak self.
I didn’t hesitate.
Bit that bastard in the neck like a polar bear on bath salts.
Blood filled my mouth. Eyes locked. He knew.
That was the moment he realized he was prey in the kingdom of suffering.

I launched out of the water like an alpha leopard seal, flopping onto the ice with the fish still thrashing between my teeth.
Did I cook it? No.
I slammed it on a rock and tore into it raw, headfirst.
Scales in my beard. Bones crunching like stale granola.
The cartilage snapped like weak excuses.
A group of hikers screamed. A nearby Stacy vomited.
A goose flew away in terror.
I made eye contact with the nearby park ranger—he fell to his knees and whispered,
“That’s what a man looks like.”

They said, “That’s not safe. You’ll get parasites.”
Good.
Let the parasites suffer inside me. Let them earn their keep.
If they survive my gut, they deserve a motivational podcast.

Stay cold.
Stay carnivorous.
Stay hard.