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Aftermath: The Motivation Hacker

It's been almost six months since I published The Motivation Hacker, my book on how to get yourself to want to do what you always wanted to want to do. Here's what surprised me.

Sales (update: First Year Book sales)

I use a site called PredictionBook to compare my private guesses to reality for things like this. It helps me be less overconfident. I took a brutal calibration beating on my predictions for how many copies I'd sell in the first six months:

Here's how many I actually sold:

Weed Made Me Crazy.

On The Constance Chronicles

My First Panic Attack

I'm embarrassed to say but smoking weed was the trigger for my first panic attack which in turn started my challenge with anxiety. It was in college and I had discovered smoking pot was a way to party without the added hangover I'd get from chugging bottles of Smirnoff Ice. After a biology exam a friend and I celebrated with a purchase of a brand new glass pipe and a sack of the dirtiest and cheapest shwag in the city. You could've built a fort with the amount of twigs in our baggy. I spent a large part of the afternoon in my dorm room listening to Radiohead and Fiona Apple while rolling joints and stuffing ciga-weeds. There were three of us in a small apartment off campus. The smoking began immediately. It's exactly what you're picturing in your mind. Three kids, sitting in a circle on a carpeted floor, smoking paraphernalia in the center with light music in the background; the room lit up by a shitty dim lamp. If we were 40 years old the apartment would've been described as a drug den but because we were 18 it was considered a "nice" place. Fast forward to smoking three bowls and 7 joints later and there I am, at a computer desk eyeballing a white mouse cursor on a black computer screen. This was my one and only experience with blacking out because I ended up back on the floor laughing my ass off but had no idea how I had gotten there. The conversation topic turned to illegal immigration, turned into whether or not aliens would be considered illegal, turned into illegal immigrants being described as people who had undergone a double or quadruple amputee operation. It's true, smoking weed will not kill you but it will make you retarded. The idea of someone dragging their torsos across a country's boarder by their chin sent me into hysterics. I was sitting crossed-legged with my face buried in the carpet, cackling like a fucking banshee. Then it happened. All of the sudden I became hyper aware of my body and my mind. I kept asking my friends why we were laughing. When the only answers I got were "Huh?" and "What," I started to fall apart. It felt like tiny lightening bolts shooting up and down the back of my brain. If I hadn't been so high to the point I couldn't cry, I would've cried. I remember straining to get my eyes to look normal being that they were already too small to handle. My paranoia began and I started accusing my friends of lacing our shitty weed with something else because that's what you do with shitty weed, you mix it with primo-good drugs, right? The fat bearded gay guy I smoked with had great advice, "ugh, you need to calm the fuck down, girl." I insisted I should call an ambulance to pick me up from the apartment because I was going to die.

"What are you going to tell the doctors? You smoked too much weed?" My friend was right. Even through my cannabis craze I was certain I couldn't make an admission about my excessive drug use that evening. I was desperate for a medical professional to tell me my life was not ending. As my heart rate slowed and the lightening bolts disappeared I wrapped myself in a blanket and hunkered down in a dark bedroom for the rest of the night, eventually falling asleep. Now when I smell a hint of skunk I shudder at the thought of another panic attack.


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