Bro… listen up…
My testosterone? Straight-up volcanic.
When I crush iron—big compound lifts, plates clanging like thunder—my blood turns into liquid rocket fuel. Every squat… every rack pull… it’s an ignition switch. T surges… muscles roar… mind snaps into beast-mode.
But that’s only the opening act.
I sleep like a lion—seven, eight, sometimes nine hours—blackout curtains, zero notifications. While the world doom-scrolls, I’m lying in the dark building LEGENDARY hormone reserves. Dream territory is where tomorrow’s PRs are forged.
Morning sun hits my skin—Vitamin-D baptism. Oysters, rib-eye, egg yolks, avocado—pure mono-unsaturated dynamite. Real food… no sugar buzz, no plastic protein dust. Olive oil drips, testosterone flips.
Genes? Yeah, I hit the genetic lottery—SHBG so low it can limbo under a barbell. Means half the lab report is free-range T, stampeding through my veins, looking for PRs to conquer.
Stress? Deleted.
I journal… I meditate… then I slam 508 kg off pins and upload the carnage in 4K. Cortisol can’t catch me—too slow, too afraid.
And because haters always whisper “juice,” here’s the truth: cleaner than monk-mode. My numbers sit on the razor’s edge of natural—legal, testable, undeniable. Cross the line? WADA isotope labs light you up like Christmas. I don’t need shortcuts… I am the shortcut.
Bottom line?
Lift savage… recover sacred… eat primal… live sunlight… guard peace.
Do that and your hormones won’t just rise—they’ll detonate.