Fuckism: No one’s coming. This ride’s solo. Your life, your mess, your move.
You can have a doctor, but they can’t feel what’s wrecking you inside.
You can pay a therapist, but they can’t carry your pain.
You’ve got a boss, not a babysitter—he doesn’t care why you couldn’t get it done.
And your friends? They’re busy dealing with their own fires.
So here’s the reality:
You’re the only one who can fix your shit.
That means no savior, no shortcut, no soft landing.
Your thoughts?
Your habits?
Your damage?
Yours to face. Yours to rebuild.
Life isn’t unfair—it’s just unfiltered.
And the faster you stop looking around for a hand, the sooner you realize you’ve had the tools the whole fucking time.
This is your life. Grip the wheel. Drive.
Because no one’s showing up to rescue the version of you that won’t rescue himself.
