I hated my football coaches. All of them.

I hated my football coaches. All of them. They were losers. Well, we lost every game, but they took no ownership in the losses. Every single one of them blamed us.

I didnt mind my life coaches, but then again, I lost my girlfriend, my dog and my job. They didn't take ownership over those losses either.

Sometimes I wonder about my expectations of people who are paid to tell me to get a grip. Their lives are bigger messes than mine: that's the definition of a Life Coach

, someone who's made all the mistakes and can tell you about them. My Life Coach, who was a recovering alcoholic, drug abuser, chauvinist pig, racist, was telling me about the time

when he wasn't such a jerk and the lessons he'd learned when all at once it occurred to me... This guy, this "Life Coach" is totally bullsh*tting me. Two could play at that game,

wealth management to financially distressed middle-classers for a steep fee, while coaching their lives towards more life coaching classes. My personal wealth and life improved

At their expense and I morphed into a brown mouse named Sigge. I made up a story about my life and they seemed satisfied having me in their fold. Safety in numbers, they say...

Yet that seemed to become irrelevant as soon as the neighborhood barn cat stumbled upon our little gathering. In a fit of rage, the feline began to swat mice aside, before

one of the members of the cult grabbed it roughly by the scruff and clamped it's mouth shut. "Monty!" she exclaimed. "Remember what I told you; no interrupting our sacrifices!"