Forget motivation. Motivation is a shell game. Motivation is marketing jargon used to sell black yoga tights sewn by Bangladeshi children to fat white women who've blasted out three kids and are trying to "get back" a body they never had in the first place with the help of a pickle juice cleanse and some minion memes their knitting club friend shitposted on Facebook. Sitting around waiting for Santa Claus to shove motivation up your chimney is the Einsteinian definition of insanity, as you slop caramel mocha fuckaccinos into your gob until your thighs meld into a single mass while wondering when Amazon Prime is going to deliver you that motivation you so desperately need.

You need habit. You need to stop marinating in your farts at your computer desk and pick up some fuckin' iron. You need to sweat through your shirt squatting weight that you think might break your back, then you need to get your ass back up the next day, do it again, and put more weight on the bar while you're at it. You don't get to have motivation, because you don't have discipline. Motivation is what you earned breaking your teeth on the grindstone, when you start to see those results and get hungry for more. This is Glengarry Glen Ross and motivation is for fuckin' closers.

That's the dirty secret, that's He knows a single simple trick to get real results and fitness merchants hate him for it! You're strapping a broke down cart to a horse and trying to pull the horse. Motivation is what comes after you do the work, it's the reward for the work. How do you get up and go to the gym? You get up and go to the gym. You get up sick, you get up tired, you go and you feel fatter than everyone else around you including this perfect-haired prick next to you hopped up on a baby test cycle with his amazing physique and super white teeth. You can see this dickhead's abs through his god damned shirt and you have to stand next to him lifting half his weight, trying to blend into the wall as people look through you like you're made out of glass trying to ogle him. You're gonna' go and dodge old men and their flapping saggy sacks in the locker room as you try to get in a shower and all they seem to want to do is flop around every square inch of space you need to get in and out. You're gonna' try your hardest not to see a butthole, and you're gonna see one anyhow.

That's what you do to find motivation. You grind, you keep coming back every day until it becomes a habit. After a few weeks, you start to look forward to it. Maybe Captain America and his infuriatingly pretty hair isn't lifting quite that much more than you, anymore. Maybe you're still a fat cupcake, but a slightly smaller cupcake. Then, you get to enjoy feeling some enthusiasm, feeling a bit of pride. That's motivation, but that comes after.

I hope you find some time this weekend to get your ass off Reddit and start sweating. I hope you fuckin' hate it, and I hope you do it the next day, and I hope you fuckin' hate it, then, too. But I hope you do it, and I hope you stick with it. Good luck, dude.