Your True Nature Calling
What Jane’s Addiction—and Perry Farrell’s lyrics—taught me about empathy, language, and seeing people for who they really are. A tribute to music that still hits harder than ever.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
The Death Clock Is Ticking (Carpe Diem, Motherfucker)
I set a death clock right on my desk. Not for drama. For clarity.
It counts down the estimated number of days I’ve got left—based on the average life expectancy of a U.S. male and the fact that I’ve made it this far without winning a Darwin award. Which, honestly, feels like a win some days.
Most people don’t want to think about death. I get it. It’s uncomfortable. It’s heavy.
But ignoring it doesn’t make it go away.
What does go away—quietly and without apology—is time.
That’s why the clock is there, right next to my monitor. Not to freak me out, but to call my bluff.
You said this day mattered? Cool.
You said you want to be present? Great.
You said you want to live on purpose? Let’s see it.
Every time I look at that little number ticking down, I feel the same gut check:
If this is what I’ve got left… what the hell am I doing with today?
I’m not out here base jumping or chasing adrenaline. That’s not me.
But I do make sure the people I love know it.
I call my friends.
I make my kids laugh.
I let my team know I’ve got their back.
I try to stay open. Even with strangers.
Because maybe they’re not just passing through.
Maybe they’re the next person who shifts my perspective.
Maybe they’ve got something I need to hear.
Maybe I’ve got something they need, too.
Living like the clock is ticking doesn’t mean I’m chasing thrills.
It means I’m chasing meaning.
It means I’ve stopped sleepwalking through the day.
I say what I mean.
I show up.
I put my damn phone down.
I don’t wait until “later” to tell someone they matter—because later isn’t guaranteed.
When you carry the truth of your own limited time, you start acting like it matters.
You listen closer.
You ask better questions.
You stop treating people like background noise and start wondering what they’ve lived through—what they carry.
You stop rushing through moments—and you start seeing them.
That’s the gift.
That’s the part nobody talks about when they say “live like you’re dying.”
It’s not about fear. It’s about intention.
A kind of quiet, honest clarity about how you spend your time, your energy, your attention.
And yeah, sometimes that clarity takes the form of something a little intense.
A death clock? Really?
Yeah. Really.
I know, it sounds a little dark.
It’s a little morbid—but also weirdly freeing.
Because when you stop pretending you’ve got unlimited time, you start protecting what actually matters.
You stop trying to win arguments with people who don’t even get you.
You stop chasing shit you don’t even want.
You start choosing presence over productivity.
Love over ego.
Meaning over noise.
There’s a freedom that comes from facing the truth head-on:
This ride ends.
So what are you gonna do with the rest of your tickets?
So yeah, I’ve got a death clock on my desk.
Not to scare me.
Not to be edgy.
But to remind me: this is it.
This is the one shot. The one life. The one day I get to live today.
I’m not wasting it being bitter.
I’m not wasting it being mad at a President who has never once thought of me.
I’m not wasting it wishing I had someone else’s life or their inherent problems.
I’m not wasting it beating myself up over mistakes I’ve made in the past.
Instead, I’m gonna laugh with my kids.
Text that friend back.
Tell someone I love them.
Eat something delicious.
Be in nature as much as possible.
Look someone in the eye and actually see them.
Because the clock’s ticking—and every day, there’s less of it left.
Carpe diem, motherfucker.
“Know what’s enough. Build what matters.”
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