THEY’RE STEALING YOUR LIFE: 7 Brutal Ways You’re Being Robbed of 96% of Your Time (And Why You’ll Die Forgettable)

(If you’re not pissed, you’re not paying attention)

I HATE TIME VAMPIRES

It's 4 a.m. and my shirt is somewhere between the beach and oblivion. Linen pants hang low enough to offend a nun, cigarette dangling off my lip like it owes me money. My girl’s on the balcony with me, wrapped in a sheet that barely pretends to hide anything, laughing at some obscene joke I whispered into her neck. Her laughter tastes like Mezcal and bad decisions the good kind. The sun hasn't risen yet but the sky already looks guilty teasing everyone.

Below us, I see them. The zombie march. Coffee in hand, dead eyes forward, racing towards traffic jams like lemmings chasing cliffs. It’s like watching extras from a bad movie scene, repeating their boring fucking script they repeat everyday fucking Truman show ass npc loser bitch Wake up! Shower. Shave. Exist. Repeat. Congratulations, you’ve perfected breathing indoors and politely laughing in order not to offend. pussy….

"Look at them," I chuckle, taking a deep drag, ash falling onto the balcony railing. "Every single one in a hurry to sit in a steel cage on wheels with all the other rats stuck behind some guy with a pasty face and a rainbow bitch Tesla with a “i bought before Elon went crazy” sticker. Probably hasn’t been laid since you’ve been born."

My girl laughs again, genuine and sharp. She knows the punchline. She is the punchline. We’re the punchline. I glance sideways at you, yes, you reading this, sitting here with me on this balcony, listening as I roast your entire existence. Don’t flinch. You signed up for this. You clicked the post riggggghhhhht. You wanted honesty.

Let’s talk honesty then shall we.

We shall. You think you have time, right? Your therapist and your mom told you that you’re special. You’re not. Your day is rented, borrowed, stolen before sunrise. Eight hours of unconscious drooling, dreaming about better days. Eight hours in a cubicle, wearing clothes you hate, faking smiles at people you’d quietly smother with a pillow if given the chance. Two hours commuting, trapped in a hot metal box, your IQ dropping every second you listen to the radio or some productivity podcast telling you to hustle harder and maybe Bill Gates will hop out your freezer stopping you from grabbing more ice cream to shake your hand and offer you a business opportunity for a business you DONT EVEN HAVE. Spoiler alert anyways Your hustle made your boss rich, not you.

Then you spend an hour on a treadmill, trying to outwalk last night’s carbs, “dammit I shouldn’t of had 17 coronas while watching that hellish show my girlfriend loves but I had to get through it or she’d be upset” while you’re staring at the ass in front of you and wondering if there’s a better life out there. Two hours spent cooking, eating, washing dishes, texting or sending ig reels to people you secretly wish would get abducted by aliens. Finally, one pitiful, lonely hour scrolling through x, jerking off, or watching someone else live the life you dream of having. Weekends? Blackout drinking, forgetting your own name, hooking up with strangers, and still waking up empty.

Total it up and you have maybe MAYBE one real hour to yourself. One tiny sliver of genuine freedom in an entire 24 hour rotation around a giant ball of fire.

I look at you again, blowing smoke slowly from my lips. "You call that living?"

You know what I call it? Slow motion suicide.

Meanwhile, here I am, smelling like sex, sea salt, and irresponsibility, lighting another cigarette, watching the world suffocate on routine. My schedule is as follows: whatever the hell I want, whenever the hell I want it. I’m writing stories that get absorbed by my pack and my haters, making love that gets remembered, starting revolutions, planning heists of the human spirit, drinking mezcal before breakfast, and laughing at rules you follow like commandments.

You have alarms. I have adventures. You have obligations. I have orgasms. You have weekdays and weekends I have chaos, and every day ends in 'why the fuck not?'.

Keep reading or Keep marching like the zombie you are, letting life fuck you without even buying you dinner first. The choice is yours, but just know I’ll be up here, half drunk, eyes open sharp, laughing my ass off.

Time’s not your friend. It's your pimp, and it’s taking everything.

Let’s break down exactly how you got robbed and maybe, just maybe, I'll show you how to steal it all back.

I see you, reader. Seriously, I do. In fact, I’m right fucking behind you. Kidding. Or am I? Anyway, let's break it down again, because I know basic math isn’t your strong suit (otherwise you’d have quit your job a long time ago):

• 8 hours lying motionless, drooling onto a pillow you should’ve replaced three years ago.

• 8 hours chained to a desk, mastering the art of pretending to type whenever your boss walks by yup keep typing he’s coming.

• 2 hours stuck in traffic, staring into space, occasionally honking to feel alive ooh you little rebel, now you’re considering if prison might actually be an upgrade… more honest.

• 2 hours chewing food, ordering Uber Eats for the fourth night in a row because cooking is hard and you deserve it. You deserve type 2 diabetes, apparently.

• 1 hour at the gym, because if you’re going to hate yourself, at least take that pain out on your body and plus these instagram reels make it look pretty cool now.

• 2 hours scrolling mindlessly, thumb muscles stronger than your sense of purpose. Arguing with strangers, double tapping fake asses on Instagram of girls who don’t even know you, then desperately refreshing your inbox hoping for a miracle or an inheritance from an uncle you’ve never met or a magical dm from that person.
  
  Now let's pause. Add that shit up and see what you’ve got left. You’re down to a couple pathetic scraps of time. A few miserable, leftover minutes where you think maybe, just maybe, you’ll do something revolutionary like download a meditation app or google "side hustles" (and never actually start one). Because God knows, you wouldn't want to do something reckless like actually live your life.

But hey, don’t listen to me. Let’s fast forward to the end of life. Close your eyes wait, actually don’t, you’re still pretending to work just imagine this vividly with me:

You’re 75 years old, lying in a hospital bed. Your family gathered around you like vultures circling roadkill. You look at your hands, veins popping, skin thinner than the condoms she always made you wear. You reflect deeply on your life choices….

“Wow,” you croak. Your family leans closer, waiting for some profound final words.
“I really wish… I worked harder. Damn, if only I'd skipped more of my kid’s birthdays to stay late and color code spreadsheets. If only I hadn't wasted those four whole vacation days in Cabo what was I thinking, enjoying myself, I could have been at work? And thank God I never chased my stupid dream of writing that novel or starting a business, because what would people in the office thought? Man, what a relief that I spent my life worrying about impressing people who pronounce ‘espresso’ as ‘expresso.’ I’ve truly… lived.”

And then you flatline peaceful, boring, and forgettable.

This is your horror story. A lifetime of doing exactly what you're told, showing up at exactly the right time, and politely hiding every wild, outrageous instinct inside you because your supervisor prefers "team players." Team players, by the way, die anonymously. Ever seen a tombstone inscribed, "Here lies Greg, he was punctual and great at emails"? Didn't fucking think so.

Reliability is just work coded for house trained. Good boy thats why you’re getting paid not because of production. You're getting paid to wag your tail and show up when they whistle. Sounds a lot like slavery, right? I know that word makes you uncomfortable, but so does your life, so we’re even.

Don't you dare pat yourself on the back for being a “hard worker.” Any trained poodle can jump through hoops. You're choosing easy mode trade freedom for direct deposits, trade adventure for ergonomic wrist rests on that nerdy geek boy wonder keyboard. You're not brave for showing up on time. You're just obedient.

real hard work looks nothing like what you’re doing. Real hard work is taking risks. Real hard work is scheming your way out of the maze, plotting escapes, failing spectacularly, winning savagely. Real hard work is saying “fuck you” to predictability and leaping into chaos, where actual freedom, money, and legends are made.

Enjoy your cage, zoo animal. I'll send postcards from the wild side.

Leisure: The Secret Weapon of Geniuses (And Why You’ll Never Be One If You’re Always Busy)

Do you think the men who changed the world did it while answering emails all day? You think Michelangelo painted the Sistine Chapel between work calls? Think Byron wrote poetry while juggling Zoom meetings. You think Hemingway dreamed up and wrote his novels during his lunch break at a construction job? Get real. The Legends of creation lived their lives in the open air, with hours to burn, vices to chase, love affairs to lose themselves in, and time to sit the fuck down and think.

Einstein took long, pointless walks and dreamed up the universe while staring at rivers. Da Vinci would vanish for days, obsessing over shadows and anatomy, not "optimizing his calendar." Oscar Wilde held court in cafes, plotting scandal and beauty between sips of absinthe.
All the best, wildest minds, the kind who made art, changed science, or seduced the world, guarded their freedom like treasure.
They didn’t just have time, they stole it.

Let’s do the math for you, wage slave:

• Total weeks in a year: 52

• Average vacation (if you’re lucky): 2 weeks

• Percent of year actually “free”: 2 / 52 = 3.8%

• That’s right. 96.2% of your year is owned. Stolen. Gone.

Welly Welly well that blows harder than a whore in a bank but let’s get darker:

• In a 40 year working life, that’s 80 weeks of “vacation” less than 1.5 years, out of forty.
  

• You will spend 38.5 years chained to a desk, a phone, a boss, or a job description that could be replaced by AI or a well trained fucked up shit throwing Suit and Tie monkey.
  

How do you expect to make anything beautiful, dangerous, or legendary when you’ve only been given 3.8% of your life to actually breathe?
Do you really think you’re going to build your dream, become an outlaw, paint, write, sculpt, conquer, or fuck your way into history with the leftover scraps of your schedule?

You won’t. You’ll die with a vacation slideshow and a folder of half finished notes.

The risk is the only way out. Risk is the price of greatness, of leisure, of the hours you need to create, to think, to become.

Go free, go paid, just don’t be another ghost reading for nothing. Subscribe because legends don’t freeload.

7 Ways They Steal Time from You (And Why You’ll Die Boring if You Don’t Wake Up)

1. Selling You the Religion of Sleep
Eight hours a night, bro! What are you scared of being tired once in a while. I am under full belief it is good for you creatively to be tired every now and then.
keep snoring through your life while your dreams get mugged in the alley. They tell you rest is self care, but it’s just time you can’t get back. Spoiler: you can sleep when you’re dead unless you already are.

2. Turning “Work” Into Your Full Time Personality
They ask what do you do in conversation upon meeting. These fucking loser no personality lost bots. They became their job they are no longer who you knew.
Your life’s mission is to be reliable? My dog has the same career path. She’s happier.

3. The Commute: Human Trafficking, But Make It Suburban
Two hours a day, staring at taillights and listening to podcasts about “success” from guys who wear AirPods in the shower. You think you’re going places? Nah, you’re doing laps in the world’s shittiest hamster wheel.
You could be halfway to Cuba by now if you’d just driven in the other direction, dumbass.

4. The Cult of “Wellness”
You spend an hour a day “optimizing” your health: tracking your sleep, blending spinach, jerking off to Andrew Huberman’s dopamine chart. Your ancestors fought saber tooths, you fight gluten.
No one ever got ripped or happy counting chia seeds. Grab some sunlight and a steak, you loser bitch idiot freak bag chia pudding eating smelly goblin.

5. The Dinner Date with Death
You waste another two hours pretending food is an “experience.” The only thing you’re feeding is your need for distraction. It is fuel. Life isn’t about eating unless someone you love is sitting with you.
By the time you digest that shit you’ll be old, gray, and still hungry.

6. Social Media: The Infinite Scroll of Oblivion
The little screen in your pocket is a slot machine for your soul. You “like” people you hate, you compare your outtakes to their highlight reel, you watch TikToks until you become one and speak like one.
The algorithm that hates you more than your stepdad did.

7. “Weekend Freedom”Your Two Day Parole
They let you off the leash for 48 hours so you can black out, overspend, and call it “living.” Monday comes and your hangover’s the only proof you ever felt alive. How much time do you even put towards your so called “dream”
Weekend warriors? Please. The real war is between you and the Monday you keep crawling back to like an abused dog.

The Payoff Space Where Day Actually Lives

“work life balance.” That’s a myth for housebroken men who dream of burning the office down but settle for a new ergonomic chair. Balance is what they sell you so you’ll stop dreaming of escape. I don’t even know what day it is or I do but I don’t fucking have to. Every day is either a riot, a creative explosion, or an all day session in the sheets with my girl.

Seduce Life and She seduces you back

I wake up when my body’s ready. Not when my phone bullies me out of sleep. Sometimes I work all night, sometimes I vanish for two days on a surf bender or disappear into a book so good it makes the librarian jealous. The only routine is making sure my brain gets enough sunlight, danger, and espresso to feel dangerous.

There’s no boss breathing down my neck unless she’s naked and grinning. No leash, no permission slips, no cap on my upside just infinite runway and the knowledge that if I get bored, it’s my own damn fault. Most people get free and panic. They call it anxiety. I call it “slave guilt” the feeling you get when you’ve been programmed your whole life to keep showing up at a job for someone else and now the freedom is dizzying when you don’t have to.

Money is just chips for the game. Sometimes I make a month’s rent in an hour(thanks crypto). Sometimes I blow it all on mezcal, tattoos, linen shirts, or a ticket to Rio because I like the name and the sunrise tastes different there. Try it. It’s better than Prozac.

The upside to the free life
My girl. Sun kissed, wild, dangerous, and loyal as hell.
My wolves. Brothers who’d drag a corpse for me or bury mine if it comes to that.
Family that matters. Not the ones who guilt you for missing Thanksgiving, but the ones who’d actually come rescue you from a Hawaiian jail cell.
The art. My words, my vision, my savage freedom to make something that outlives me.
The risk. Because without it, I might as well be dead.
The stories. fuck, I have so many, I have to delete the boring ones from my brain to make room.
The silence. Real silence, where you can actually hear God, not just the HR Karen lady.

And the best part? If I want to drop everything, take my girl to Saint Tropez, and spend a week drinking wine and laughing at the peasants, I don’t have to ask Todd or Karen for permission.
I just go.
Most people are scared of freedom because it means there’s nobody left to blame when you waste your own life.

Call to Arms: Escape or Rot

JOIN the WOLVES

There’s a room you’ll never see. It is tiled in gold, windows wide to the Pacific, the moon drowning in mezcal, my wolves circled around the table, faces lit by candlelight and the glow of outlaw plans. Every night, the city falls asleep clutching alarm clocks and excuses, while we’re up here, rewriting the rules.

We don’t count hours; we break them. We don’t ask permission; we steal what we need and pay the price in scars. We’re the men with wild eyes and fresh stories, the men and women who say yes to adventure, the pack that laughs too loud, fucks too hard, and risks too much to ever be replaced.
If you don’t steal your own hours, someone else will.
Your boss, your feed, your anxious mother, the algorithm, the system, they’ll all gut you for every minute and leave you wondering where your legend went.
Most of you are just killing time before time kills you. You worship weekends like hungry ghosts, never realizing real freedom is built on Monday mornings when the rest of the world files in quietly and you walk out grinning.
You’re reading this because part of you isn’t dead yet. Part of you wants the map out.
I buried the blueprint in the paid guides for the wolves, the outlaws, the dangerous, the hungry.
Subscribe now. Join the tribe. Read what they pray you never see. Go paid and get the keys.
These are the forbidden codes, the weapons, the mind hacks, the stories that crack the system open.
Want money? Want respect? Want women? Want time?
You’ll find the way inside the inner circle.

You weren’t built for compliance. You were built for chaos, creation, and conquest.
You don’t need more tips. You need a revolution.

God Bless the Wolves.
God help the rest.

-Day