Working for peanuts doesn’t pay the power company. (Candlelight, anyone?)
Working for peanuts doesn’t get you the respect—and bank balance—you deserve. (Hint: It’s a lot.)
And working for peanuts doesn’t make you the business powerhouse you know you can be. (Nude snakeskin stilettos included.)
Here’s what I know:
- You’re (street) smart as hell & resilient as fuck. You have a BA* degree (*Bad Ass) tucked firmly under your brown leather belt, and when you try and fall asleep at night, you can’t help but toss and turn while turning over ideas in your head about how you can be, do, and earn MORE.
- You can charge what you’re worth, and not cause potential clients to set their hair ablaze and run for the hills (whether or not said hills are or are not alive with the sound of music).
- You can find clients who want to write you sonnets—complete with iambic pentameter—scrawled on fancy parchment paper and spritzed with perfume. They get you. They appreciate you. And they can’t wait to pay you.
- You can make a damn good living while doing a damn good job at whatever it is that makes you want to scream, “HELL YES,” all while standing on a roof and wielding a very large and impressive megaphone.
- You can—and should—charge big chunks of change for your work, even if it comes as easy to you as remembering your middle name. (That’s a great sign. You have a gift, and it’s time you damn well accept it, no exceptions.)
- You don’t have to trudge back to the 9 to 5, mindlessly twirling in your stained spinny chair and letting some lazy asshat with a beer gut dictate how and when you live your life. (Also, that fluorescent lighting wreaks havoc on the complexion.)
- Apple is, indisputably, the best pie. (Not up for discussion.)
- You’ll have to work hard, but you can boost your bottom line without wanting to bang your head against your office wall or shout profanities at innocent passersby.
And I’m going to teach you exactly what you need to know to make all these crucial changes happen. For you. For your business. For your motherfucking future.
Trained bullshit slayer™, decked out with a wicked stake and a deep, unyielding L-O-V-E for helping you get your shit together in the most painless, pure, and efficient way possible.
Consider me your own personal Rambo, assuming Rambo was an F and truth bomb-dropping business coach who’s turns your fear and uncertainty into undeniable profits and life satisfaction. (Did someone say cabana boys?)
First-time entrepreneur? I’ll show you how to up your prices without losing sales.
Established business veteran? Let’s help your business feel less like someone twisting out each one of your molars with a rusty pair of pliers and more like today’s work refueled me and tomorrow’s going to be even better.
Ghosts of Future Past:
Working non-stop for faded, dirt-caked pennies from 1978.
Never meeting your monthly revenue goals.
Over-delivering and under-quoting.
And let’s not forget the undeniable stress sweats whenever you have to hop on a client call, pitch to a person who actually matters, or pass up incredible opportunities because your knees can’t stop clacking together from sheer, undiluted FEAR.
Ghosts of Future Present:
Your calendar doesn’t have to be packed with huge, daunting blocks of ill-fitting client bimbos you don’t want to work with. You don’t have to cry in the cookie aisle about the grueling deadlines that make you want to hole up in a Swedish ice cave and take up knitting.
And you certainly don’t have to elaborately fake your own death to avoid paying that long-overdue credit card bill. After all, your bank account has been going from moderate to meager to MOTHERFUCKER.
Ghosts of Future Yet to Come:
A business (and life) where you have a veritable cornucopia of clients, biting at the bit to empty their pockets and scribble their name on any line of every check.
Let’s zero in on those juuuuust right customers (Goldilocks style), getting ’em lined up, locked and loaded for your Next Big Thing. (There will be celebratory chocolate-covered cherries.)
It’s about cultivating the confidence to run your business like a boss. (Spoiler alert: You are the boss. Act like one.) It’s about patching those huge holes where you’ve worn yourself thin, making room for you to fucking breathe, and—if we’re being honest—bathe.
And then there’s the (most important) part where you’ll see the balance of your bank account growing day by day like the happiest damn plant you’ve ever seen. (And they say money doesn’t grow on trees.)
You’re smart enough. You’re capable enough. You have a right to make (a metric shit ton) of money doing what you do best. And I’m going to prove it.
It’s time to stop just scraping by, and start swimming around on a bed full of cash money, much like a mafia mob boss.
You can barely survive, or you can thrive.
The choice, as always, is yours.