Sean’s second book
A coming-of-age story for builders. Thirty years of momentum that kept stalling, ventures that kept collapsing, and the moment the pattern finally came into focus. This is the origin story of the Lesaruss Blueprint and the 111 Day Theory, told the way it actually happened.
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Synopsis
For builders, founders, and creators who keep generating momentum that stalls.
From childhood, before glasses corrected a blur he assumed was just how the world looked, through a wrestling role-play federation, Anime 3000, TopSpot USA, Chester, and the ventures that came after, Sean traces the same pattern showing up again and again: real projects, real wins, real collapses, and no way to explain why it kept repeating.
The story bottoms out living in his car, having chosen to pay his team instead of his rent, and turns on a single decision: never again. What follows is the inner work, the rebuild, and the moment the pattern finally got a name. Not talent. Not access. Structure. This book is what happens when you can finally see it.
Read an excerpt
I remember sitting there, small enough that my feet didn’t even touch the ground, hearing everything before I could fully understand it.
The music. The laughter. The gasps from the crowd. It was loud. Exciting. Alive. Everyone around me was locked in, reacting, pointing, smiling, fully in it. And I couldn’t see any of it clearly. Not the performers. Not the details. Just shapes. Movement. Color blending into color.
So I did what made the most sense. I watched everyone else. They were reacting in real time, laughing when something hit, gasping when it got intense, tracking something I couldn’t fully see. Something felt off. I just didn’t have the words for it yet.
I didn’t find out until later that I couldn’t actually see properly. That I needed glasses. That what I thought was normal… wasn’t. That everyone else had been experiencing the world in a completely different way the entire time.
What you see isn’t always the problem. How clearly you see it is. Most people don’t question what they’re looking at. They assume it’s accurate. But it’s not reality. It’s just their current level of clarity. And if your view is off, your decisions follow.
Continued in the full book…
Inside the book
I remember sitting there, small enough that my feet didn’t even touch the ground, hearing everything before I could fully understand it. The music. The laughter. The gasps from the crowd.
I was sitting in the back of the class, not really paying attention, just trying to stay quiet and out of trouble. My hands were busy.
I remember sitting in my fifth-grade math class, staring at the board, half listening, half somewhere else.
I was standing in the hallway outside Mr. Becker’s fifth-grade class, back against the wall, staring at the floor tiles.
I used to sit on the floor for hours on this Dijon mustard-colored shag carpet, surrounded by my Transformers, G.I. Joes, and He-Man figures. There was always a story.
I was in a portable classroom, hot, a little cramped, desks slightly out of place. The substitute had lost control of the class.
I remember saving up my money, week after week, working at Winn-Dixie. I wanted a camera.
I was outside playing basketball with my friend Caesar. It was a normal day. Then everything shifted.
By the time I got to high school, something had already shifted in me. It wasn’t loud, but it was there.
It started with a computer we got from Rent-A-Center. And for me, it changed everything.
By the time I got into high school, something about me was already set. If I cared about something, I locked in. If I didn’t, I checked out.
I remember seeing it on TV. Not in class, not on a school monitor. On the actual news. NBC. Something I created was airing for everyone.
I didn’t walk into college empty-handed. After my internship with the Florida Marlins, they offered me something I didn’t expect. A job.
The first time I had a job, I was knocking on strangers’ doors. Sun beating down, clipboard in hand.
I was 21 when I started at Silver Ridge Elementary. Then they’d bring them to me, drop them off, and once they let go, they were mine.
I remember handing the camera to a student for the first time. They hesitated. Held it like it didn’t belong to them. So I told them: “Just try something.”
It started with a post. Not a plan, not a strategy. Just a post. At that point, I was already deep into anime.
I didn’t look like I belonged there. Long hair, rock shows, loud guitars. TopSpot USA didn’t start as a brand. It started as a way in.
At first, it didn’t feel like burnout. It felt like momentum. Different worlds, all pulling from the same place.
The first time I thought I was going to lose my job, I was still at Silver Ridge. The recession hit.
I remember the room. A coworking space with exposed brick, long tables, and people I didn’t know. The energy was different. Focused. Intentional.
I got the call that I was going to be on a primetime television show. ABC. The Hustler. They were flying me to Hollywood.
I was sitting in my room, staring at my laptop. No plan. Just pressure. Everything was running through me.
It didn’t start as a phase. It started as a choice. Not around me. In me.
I remember the moment clearly. My dad was visiting. He didn’t come around often. So when he showed up, it meant something.
It didn’t start with clarity. It started with pressure. I had been building, traveling, expanding Vegans Explore.
I was in the car, driving from Orlando to South Florida. Three hours and twenty-eight minutes. What mattered was what I did with the drive.
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