From The Desk of Maverick Brenton.
Subject: Writing Your Own Rulebook.
I have never liked rules.
And I have never been good at following them.
When I was a kid they told me to stand in line with all the other kids, with mouth shut and my hands by my side.
So I went home, drank some coffee, and lifted some weights.
Told em I had other plans.
Told em I ain’t taking what they’re offering, because what they’re offering ain’t worth shit.
A cushy job? A salary? Retiring at 70? 2 days free, 5 days a slave?
I didn’t like the sound of this, because it was fucked deal.
That’s why I took the hard road.
Scrubbing dishes, cleaning toilets, working gas stations, bouncing bars.
I was more willing to do the lowest and most undesirable jobs, then I was to work a cushy normal job.
Being normal had absolutely zero appeal to me, because I’m not a normal person.
Netflix and chill. Superannuation funds. Retirement goals.
None of this bullshit has ever had ANY influence in my life because I’m eternally concerned with other things.
Like creating ultimate freedom, living a life worth writing about, smoking great cigars, dancing until dawn, and being a resident in ten different countries.
I wasn’t going to play by their rules and get caught in the trap - so I said fuck their degrees, their carrots, and their peas.
I wanted the tender meat.
I wanted her between my sheets.
I wanted to write my own rules, and do things my own way.
Like Frank motherfucking Sinatra.
He understood what nobody else did, just like I understand what a lot of people don’t.
What’s that?
The rules are not there to help you.
The rules ARE there to keep you down, to keep you in line, to keep you tame, to keep you controlled.
To keep you poor.
To keep you a slave.
And they work extremely well.
Just look around if you want the proof, just pay attention if you wanna see the truth.
95% of men will stand in line and follow along like every other joker, forever wondering what happened to their dreams, and the two balls that used to hang between their legs.
Very few individuals will ever open their eyes to how the world really works, to learn the truth about who they really are, and what they are really capable of doing.
The matrix has them paralysed with it’s imaginary rules.
It’s got them stuck in the box, just like jack.
It’s got em thinking that there’s nothing else.
But there are some who jump outta the box to take a look around, who realise there’s a whole new world outside that box.
A world where there ain’t no rules.
Now it’s time for a story from my old life.
The life I left behind to become the man writing these words.
Yeah, I miss it a little, but not too much.
Cos I age like fine wine and double barrelled whiskey, brother.
So pull up a seat and light up a spliff, I got a story to tell.
Bundaberg Rum and a Splash of Coke.
I don’t remember the exact date, but it was around March of 2020.
The greatest scam in history had just started and the bar I was working in got shut down.
So there I was sitting next to a pool filled with girls from around the world, drinking rum and coke - thinking real damn hard about how I would make money without my job.
The bar was in a backpackers nightclub, and it was owned by a fella who I got along with rather well.
He was like an older version of Charlie Sheen, so for the sake of simplicity, we’re gonna call him Charlie.
Now the thing about Charlie was, he didn’t give a fuck.
About anything.
Made $20 something million back in the dot com boom.
He owned this nightclub/hostel, and his bar was making bank until big daddy government told us to shut it down.
That left me and him with over 200 bored backpackers who wanted to fuck each-other and get hammered.
Obviously they could still fuck each other, but they couldn’t get hammered.
Here’s a Universal Equation of Life:
Irish and English Backpackers Living Together - Alcohol = Trouble.
Sure enough, just like my eternal genius predicted, that trouble came.
They started buying alcohol from town, getting hammered in the streets, and attracting a lot of unwanted attention to the hostel.
Police got involved. Backpackers got in trouble. Charlie started losing money.
That’s when both of us began thinking outside the rules.
Everyone else who worked there was gone. They were quite happy living off government money.
But I wasn’t.
With heads together and rum in hand, the greatest idea since Crunchy Nut Cornflakes was born - we would sell alcohol straight outta the Coolroom in six packs and cans and bottles.
Although the government shut down the bar and told us we couldn’t sell out of it.
We could sell our “guests” takeaway drinks because the hostel was essentially a hotel.
Supposing we didn’t sell alcohol out of the main bar, we could still sell alcohol, out of the cool-room.
This made absolutely zero sense.
But it’s the government, they’re fucking cooked, you know?
So after we both agreed that this was a legendary plan, I dragged a table in front of the Coolroom and I filled that Coolroom with thousands of dollars worth of alcohol.
You know what followed this crazy little idea?
Sweet success baby.
I sold gallons of alcohol every single night for months on end.
I printed cash like a motherfuckin’ central bank.
And I had one hell of a time, with girls and guys from around the world.
Every night for almost four months I would go in, pump music, sell drinks, and study to become a Commercial Diver.
It was one of the most thrilling experiences of my life.
While everyone else followed the rules and listened to authority.
I broke all of them.
And I grew my bank account daily.
Eventually it grew out of control and the parties became absolutely fucking wild.
Bitches would pool onto the street, noise complaints were made, and retarded fucks called the police because we weren’t being C*V*D Safe.
The cops showed up and threatened us with fines.
So we got bouncers in to control the noise and keep shit under control.
It worked until it became too much even for the bouncers.
After five months it came to an end, and so I lived like a beach bum while making cash through illegal diving jobs while sleeping in my cousins music studio.
Fuck I live a boring life.
This entrepreneurial venture cemented in my mind something that I have known my whole life.
We’re gonna talk about it right now.
Fuck The Rules.
The rules are there to be broken.
And breaking them will give you everything you’ve ever wanted in your life.
Why?
Because while everyone else is cowering in the fucking corner afraid of ghosts that don’t exist, you’ll be taking what you want with ZERO competition.
With ZERO remorse.
With ZERO apologies.
That’s how I roll my dice, that’s how I want you to roll your dice.
Capice?
It’s the ultimate secret that only the rule breakers understand.
It’s the magic spell that makes destiny bend over and drop her panties for you.
When you live like a fucking boss and decide to TAKE what you want.
There is no competition.
There is no waiting in line.
It’s just you and the world bending before your WILL.
When I made this move and executed on the idea, Noah’s Ark wouldn’t save a motherfucker from the apocalyptic flood of shit talking that resulted.
I stepped on toes.
“Who’s this new guy getting around like he owns the place?”
That’d be me.
And no I don’t own the place.
I’m just a G who refuses to accept getting fucked in the ass by life.
Been there. Done that. No thanks.
So while they sat around crying about unfairness, I spent my days fucking an 18 year old schoolgirl.
And I spent my nights making money, flirting with girls from around the world, talking shit with the lads, doing exactly what I wanted to be doing.
This is what happens when you throw their rulebook out the window.
Can’t you see it yet?
Men who live their life by societies code get everything they DON”T want.
A shit job, a nasty woman, loads of debt, child support, and herpes**.**
Men who live their life by their own code get everything they ever dreamed of getting.
A bank account full of money, multiple girls, and a deep sense of fulfilment.
The World You Can’t See (yet)
Listen.
There’s a whole new level of living that 99% of men will never know about or experience.
It exists outside the rulebook that you were raised by.
You know?
The one they threw at you in kindergarten.
The one that tells you to shut the fuck up, question nothing and blindly obey authority figures.
Raise your hand if you have a question - ask permission to do everything - behave, or else.
This rulebook was created by a handful of exceptionally smart and powerful men to train SLAVES.
You think you’re free?
You think you own the money in your bank account?
You think this ISN’T a game?
It’s been a game since the day you were born.
A game with rules that were written by people that don’t follow them.
Anyone who cannot see what I am speaking about is not worthy of a life outside the confines of being a worm.
Which is fine.
Like your mum told you growing up, it takes a lot of people to make the world go around.
The world will always need dumb fucks who are happy to specialise in giving out parking tickets, because nobody with a brain will do that shit.
But the world also needs men who disobey and don’t give a damn about rules.
Funnily enough - it’s those men who forge real progress and create a better world.
So how do you write your own rules?
How do you live this life I am speaking of?
How do you break free?
First and foremost - you should accept what you are.
If you are comfortable complying with stupid rules, you’re a slave who isn’t much use outside being a slave.
But if it makes you feel nasty on the inside, then there is hope for you, which brings me to my second suggestion.
Write your OWN rules.
It’s really that simple - think hard about what you want in life, then go make it happen no matter the cost.
Maybe you have to lose everything and start from scratch.
Maybe it won’t work out.
But maybe, it will.
Regardless - do you really want to live your life never having tried to become the things you imagine?
I’m serious, think about that.
Don’t run out of time and realise that you spent your entire life only imagining things while sitting in your bedroom.
Go and DO THEM, even if it does not work out.
You’ll soon realise that if you just find the balls try, most things will work out.
You’ll end up with everything you dreamed of.
But if you’re like me.
Everything you dreamed of won’t be enough, and once you get it - you’ll say:
“Well, that was fucking easy.
I wonder what I can I do if I get serious?”
Your man,
Maverick Brenton.
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