You Can’t Handle Me in Red. But I’d Love to See You Try.
Let’s get one thing straight from the jump.
This isn’t a fashion tip. This isn’t some poetic, weak-minded metaphor you read on a Starbucks cup while sipping a soy latte, wondering why your life has no passion.
This is a declaration of war. A war against the gray, beige, NPC existence the Matrix has programmed you to accept.
“You can’t handle me in red.”
Say it out loud. Feel the weight of it. It’s not arrogance. It’s a diagnosis.
I am the red pill. I am the unapologetic truth. I am the raging fire in a world that wants you to be a flickering, safe little candle. And most of you—the vast majority of you, with your downloaded opinions and your fragile egos—are utterly, completely unequipped to deal with that kind of raw, untamed energy.
You’ve been domesticated.
The Matrix wants you compliant. It wants you to wear muted colors. To speak in muted tones. To have muted dreams. It teaches you to apologize for your success, to shrink your ambitions, to fear your own power. It tells you that confidence is “toxic” and that winning is “problematic.”
So you learn to handle the grays. You learn to handle the muted blues, the soft pinks, the safe, corporate black. You can navigate those conversations. You can exist in those spaces. It’s comfortable. It’s easy.
It’s also a slow, spiritual death.
Then you see Red.
Red is the color of alarm. Of danger. Of “stop.” It’s the color of blood, of life force, of primal power. It’s the color of the Ferrari I earned, the Bugatti I conquered in, the empire I built with my own two hands and an unbreakable will.
When I am in Red, I am not here to comfort you. I am not here to ask for permission. I am not here to be “handled” by your fragile sensibilities.
I am a walking, talking manifestation of everything you’re afraid to be.
What does it mean to be “in Red”?
It means my frame is unshakeable. My reality is the only one that matters in my vicinity. You can’t “handle” that because you’re used to people who seek your validation. I do not. Your approval is irrelevant. Your disapproval is entertainment.
It means my resolve is absolute. I have taken more punches from life than you will ever throw. Cancellation ? A mere inconvenience. A test of my mental fortitude. While you crumble at a mean tweet, I was rebuilding an empire from a small room. You think you can “handle” that level of resilience? You can’t. Your spirit would snap in half.
It means my abundance is overflowing. Red is the color of the Queen, the empress. It is wealth and power made visible. You can’t “handle” my wealth because your poverty mindset can’t even comprehend it. You think money is evil because you don’t have any. I know it’s a tool for freedom because I have stacks of it. Your brain short-circuits trying to process that.
It means my passion is a forest fire. Most of you are playing with sparklers. You have lukewarm relationships, lukewarm careers, lukewarm lives. When I commit, it’s with an inferno of purpose and intensity. You can’t “handle” that heat. You’d get burned, and you’d run back to your safe, temperate zone, whimpering about how “intense” it was.
So why would I “love to see you try”?
Because the attempt itself is fascinating.
Watching a boy try to arm-wrestle a woman is pathetic, but it’s a lesson. Watching a minnow try to swallow a shark is suicide, but it’s a spectacle.
Your attempt to “handle me” reveals your own weakness. Your stuttering comebacks reveal your lack of conviction. Your emotional breakdowns reveal a psyche made of glass. Your retreat back to the safety of the herd reveals that you never had the heart of a lion in the first place.
I am the final boss of your personal development. And you, with your cheat codes and your participation trophies, are showing up with a wet pool noodle.
But here’s the secret… the one glimmer of hope in this entire rant.
Some of you can learn to wear Red.
Not everyone. Most of you will close this tab, triggered, calling me every name in the book. That’s fine. Go back to your gray world. It needs inhabitants, I suppose.
But a few of you—the top 2% with a flicker of something real left inside—are reading this and your chest is tightening. There’s a primal part of your brain, long suppressed, that is screaming “YES.”
You’re tired of being handled. You’re tired of being manageable, palatable, and safe.
So you start small.
You stop apologizing for your opinions.
You start lifting heavy weights.
You commit to making more money than your friends think is “polite.”
You embrace conflict instead of running from it.
You take absolute, 100% responsibility for every single aspect of your life—your body, your mind, your bank account, your happiness.
You stop trying to handle the Red in others, and you start cultivating it in yourself.
You build a frame so strong that you become the one who can’t be handled.
And one day, you’ll put on that red shirt, you’ll get in your expensive car, you’ll walk into a room with unshakeable purpose, and you’ll finally understand.
This was never about a color.
It’s a state of being. It’s the essence of a winner in a world full of losers.
You still can’t handle me in red.
But maybe, just maybe, you’re finally ready to become someone who can’t be handled either.
The Matrix has you. What color is your pill?
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It’s not arrogance. It’s a diagnosis. I am the red pill. I am the unapologetic truth. I am the raging fire in a world that wants you to be a flickering, safe little candle. And most of you—the vast majority of you, with your downloaded opinions and your fragile egos—are utterly, completely unequipped to deal with that kind of raw, untamed energy.
