DIARY OF AN OUTLAW

That White Speck on Chickenshit Is Shit Too

There are a lot of sayings about character.
“The clothes don’t make the man.”
“Walk a mile in his shoes.”

You’ve heard them all before. Same message, different packaging.

Now society—especially online—likes to rebrand everything. New words. New labels. New “insight.”

It’s the same old BS.

Poser became fake. Fake became a mask. Everybody wants a new word so they can feel intelligent, special, like a baby discovering his first boner.

I don’t care what you call it.

You can buy Lamborghinis. Lift your trucks. Take trips to Tahiti. Post your businesses. Talk motivation. Pretend you give a shit about people.

Wrap it up however you want.

But here’s the truth—when it’s time to show up, you either are or you aren’t.

Only God knows who you are when nobody’s watching.

You can take a cardboard box and wrap it in the best paper money can buy. Make it look perfect. Clean. Impressive.

But when you open it, and inside it’s a pile of chickenshit…

That little white speck on top?

It’s shit too.

Life isn’t your bio. It isn’t your clothes matching your socks and your tie like anyone actually gives a fuck.

When that pine box drops six feet down, or that cremation oven lights up, you think you’re gonna be sitting there proud of your outfit? Your trip to Tahiti?

Or do you think it might be something else?

The time you didn’t step over someone.
The time you actually showed up.
The time you did the right thing when it cost you.

That’s what sticks.

This isn’t some spiritual performance. I’m not lighting candles or humming over crystals. I’m not here to save you. Do whatever the fuck you want.

But understand this—there are people who move quiet.

They’re not impressed. They’re not loud. They’re not performing.

They’re watching.

They see the guy talking too loud on his phone so everyone notices him.
They see how you treat people when you think it doesn’t matter.
They see the fake, the insecure, the selfish.
They see the predators—the pedophiles, the rapists, the backstabbers, the cheaters, the betrayers. You know the type. The ones who think they’re clever, but they’re nothing.

And the harder you try to dress it up…

The more obvious it becomes.

So before your next relationship, your next deal, your next “circle”—before you let someone close—look deeper.

Because when you unwrap it, if it’s shit…

That white speck on top isn’t saving it.

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Better Than AI

A funny thing happens when you have nothing to lose.

Across countless religions, swearing is framed as immoral. But it’s when you hit that point—when you have nothing left to protect, no one left to impress—that you spiritually enter the phase. God breaks you down to understand, and you realize the only sentence that sums it up is this: just not giving a fuck anymore.

I’ve been through the public figure grind before. Like gravity, every action has an immediate reaction. You know your message is landing when the passive-aggressive comments, the backhanded jabs, the hate begin. That’s how you know people are noticing.

Little Richard was brilliant, controversial, and ignored for living his truth. I’ve often quoted him: “I’m not cocky. I’m convinced.” That’s the mindset today.

Lately, I’ve been amused by comments claiming my POV videos are AI-generated. Funny, because it’s proof of the human element—of actually thinking, performing, and being present in ways a machine can’t replicate.

Yesterday I postponed an article called Return of the Wrecking Ball, which will come later. That piece reflects who I used to be, who I became after being hit by a car in 2021, and the painstaking work of rehabilitating my voice, my eyes, my leg. Only recently have I engineered my voice to perform the way it did during tours, holding notes for minutes at a time—a signature I thought was gone forever. This is survival, discipline, rebirth.

I’ve always been guarded. When my wife was dying of cancer, nobody knew. Not out of callousness, but because exposure invites danger. It teaches you to be protected and measured.

Long before the Internet buzz, I fought for the individualism of women, workers’ rights, and religious freedom. Back then, being outspoken earned you the label “troublemaker” and the blackball. Now, I get comedy-level comments: “My sister is more outlaw than you,” or “AI version of the predator.” I let the cat out of the bag—my existence is built on reverse psychology and patience, waiting for opposition to make the first move. Then I strike.

I am very subconsciously conditioned—Marcus Aurelius, Sun Tzu, Art of War. Raised by a Vietnam vet, my early life was less childhood, more drill-sergeant boot camp. Later, I became both protector and teacher: a soldier, a Wrecking Ball. I’ve won major court cases, never lost. I’ve done things most haven’t, while others performed menial tasks. I balance physical labor, content creation, and mental conditioning—pushing myself to levels of focus and strategy that keep me sharp.

After decades of touring, holding two-minute notes on stage, and reclaiming my voice post-accident, I’ve reclaimed the Wrecking Ball. Those who know understand: this isn’t ego. It’s survival, discipline, and rebirth. Every note, every step, every argument, every interaction is a soldier’s path—testing against the system, proving the human spirit exceeds the digital.

When I reflect on the mythos of the Wrecking Ball—my lived experience—I want to thank the haters. Your skepticism, your comments, your doubt—everything you throw at me—is a confirmation. You push me to operate better than any system, better than any simulation. You validate the work, the conditioning, the relentless pursuit of mastery.

And that’s why Little Richard’s quote lands. Being convinced isn’t cockiness; it’s acknowledgment. When God delivers you to your truth, to your identity, you don’t brag—you’re certain. You don’t need permission. You just move, act, and let the results speak.

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Everybody knows a loud guy.

He talks the most. Explains the most. Proves the most. Always has something to say about what he would do.

What he’s done. Who he is.

And if you’ve been around long enough—you notice something.

The louder he gets, the less you believe him.

Because real pressure doesn’t sound like that.

Real pressure is quiet.

There’s another type of man in the room. You don’t notice him right away. He’s not trying to be noticed.

No speech. No performance. No explanation.

But when something actually happens—everyone looks at him.

That’s the difference.

Loud men perform strength.
Dangerous men don’t need to.

A loud man wants you to know what he’s capable of.

A dangerous man already knows—and doesn’t care if you do.

Because once you’ve really been through something, you don’t talk about it the same way.

You don’t relive it for attention.
You don’t package it.

You just carry it.

And it changes how you move.

You speak less.
You react less.
You stop trying to control how people see you.

Because you’ve already seen what matters.

Being dangerous isn’t about aggression.

It’s about control.

Control of your emotions.
Control of your reactions.
Control of what you say—and what you don’t.

A loud man loses control in public.

A dangerous man never does.

That’s why people underestimate him.

And that’s why when something real happens—

no one looks at the loud guy.

They look at him.

Full Version @medium

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