As An Anarcho-Communist/Libertarian Socialist

As an anarcho-communist/libertarian socialist, I believe…

… in the abolition of capitalism, a system built on exploitation, hierarchy, and the commodification of human life

… in the abolition of the state, which exists only to enforce domination, protect property, and preserve inequality

… in mutual aid, where people support one another freely, without coercion or profit

… in solidarity, where the liberation of one is bound up with the liberation of all

… in free association and voluntary cooperation, where communities govern themselves collectively

… in dismantling all hierarchies — economic, political, and social — so that no one has power over another

… in common ownership of resources, where life’s necessities are freely shared rather than sold

… in a world where care replaces coercion, freedom replaces domination, and collective flourishing replaces individual greed.

When “A Life is a Life” Rings Hollow

Recently, I commented on someone’s Facebook post regarding Charlie Kirk’s death: “Rest in piss.” The poster unfriended me as a result, and scolded me with the phrase “A life is a life.” On the surface, that sounds noble, even Christian. But the same person openly supports Israel’s ongoing genocide in Gaza. That contradiction deserves to be unpacked.

Jesus told His followers to love their enemies and pray for those who persecute them (Matthew 5:44). Many Christians take this as a call to respond to hatred with grace. By that standard, mocking Kirk after death is uncharitable.

But Christianity also has another thread: he prophetic tradition. The Hebrew prophets denounced kings and rulers with brutal honesty. Jesus Himself called Herod “that fox” (Luke 13:32) and condemned religious leaders as “whitewashed tombs” (Matthew 23:27). Sharp words, in this tradition, are not petty insults but moral indictments. Whether my words fall into that tradition is up for debate. But the precedent stands.

If someone insists “a life is a life,” then Christian teaching requires consistency. God shows no partiality (Acts 10:34). Every life, whether Israeli or Palestinian, is of equal worth. Jesus went further, placing special emphasis on the vulnerable: “Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me. (Matthew 25:40)

Supporting a war that takes thousands of innocent lives undermines the very principle they tried to use against me. The prophets warned Israel itself of judgment when it oppressed others: “Let justice roll on like a river, righteousness like a never-failing stream.” (Amos 5:24) You cannot bless bombs and call it Christian compassion.

So which stance is more at odds with Christianity? A sharp insult aimed at a pundit whose rhetoric fuels division, or support for state violence that kills children? If we measure by the Gospel’s core commitments — justice, mercy, peacemaking — the second weighs heavier.

Christianity calls us not just to kindness in tone but to solidarity with the oppressed. “Blessed are the peacemakers” (Matthew 5:9) is not a suggestion. It is a central demand of discipleship.

A life is a life. But if we really believe that, then it applies to every human beings, not just to the ones we admire politically. If we claim Christianity, we cannot apply compassion selectively. It is hypocrisy to weep for a pundit’s dignity while ignoring the suffering of children under bombs. If Christ’s words mean anything, they demand more from us than that.

Freedom, American-Style: Guns Over Healthcare

It says a lot about the state of America when you point out that the U.S. has fallen to 57th place in the global freedom index, and the response you get from a Trump supporter is: “Yeah, well, I get to own guns.”

This is the American illusion of freedom distilled into a single sentence. Forget healthcare, forget workers’ rights, forget privacy, forget the surveillance state, forget the crushing weight of debt—because hey, you can still buy a gun. That’s supposed to make us the freest country on Earth.

But what kind of freedom is that, really? Is it freedom when millions can’t afford basic healthcare? When a medical emergency can bankrupt a family? When corporations own politicians, and workers are trapped in jobs just to keep health insurance? Is it freedom when your choices are narrowed down to which corporate brand you’ll consume, which billionaire will own your data, and which politician will fail you more slowly?

The gun argument is really a confession. It’s saying: “We’ve lost so much freedom that the only one we cling to is the ability to arm ourselves.” Guns have become the consolation prize in a country where every other right and protection is chipped away.

You can’t afford insulin, but you can afford an AR-15. You can’t get mental healthcare, but you can stockpile ammo. You can’t get your child’s asthma medication covered, but you can walk into a Walmart and walk out with a weapon of war. This isn’t freedom. It’s a parody of it.

Real freedom isn’t just the right to own a gun. Real freedom is the right to live without fear of medical bankruptcy, to have control over your workplace and your government, to exist without being exploited by corporations or surveilled by the state. Real freedom is collective, not individualistic. It’s not about clutching a weapon in the ruins, it’s about building a society where weapons aren’t necessary.

The sad truth is that when a Trump supporter says “I get to own guns,” what they’re really saying is: “This is the only freedom I have left, and I’m going to cling to it no matter what else is taken from me.” But clinging to a single hollow freedom while the rest are stripped away isn’t liberty. It’s defeat dressed up as patriotism.

And that’s why America is 57th in freedom. Because we’ve traded healthcare for hardware, dignity for firepower, and genuine liberty for a cheap illusion of it.

Selective Mourning and Manufactured Outrage

When a right-wing figure dies, suddenly the people who spend their days justifying or ignoring violence discover empathy. They’ll tell you “a death is a death” as if life holds equal value across the board in their worldview. But where are those words when children are gunned down in schools? Where is that empathy when Palestinian families are slaughtered under U.S.-funded bombs? Where is it when systemic violence claims lives every single day?

It’s not there. Because for them, “a death is a death” doesn’t mean all lives matter. It means their lives matter. It means people who share their ideology deserve to be grieved publicly and sanctified, while the countless victims of the systems they defend are dismissed as “collateral damage.”

This selective mourning is not compassion. It’s politics dressed up as morality. It’s weaponized empathy, trotted out to silence critique and demand reverence for people who built their careers on dehumanizing others.

If you only recognize the humanity of those who look like you, think like you, or vote like you, then you don’t actually value human life, you value your tribe.

Until these same voices express outrage with the same urgency for the deaths of the powerless, the dispossessed, the marginalized, their sanctimony rings hollow.

A death isn’t just a death when power decides whose life is worthy of grief and whose is not. And if we’re going to talk about respect for the dead, then we need to start with respect for the living, the ones whose deaths could have been prevented if empathy weren’t rationed out by ideology.

Could 9/11 Have Been Prevented?

The September 11th attacks shocked the world, but the question of why they happened — and whether they could have been prevented — has complex answers. While it’s easy to reduce the tragedy to “terrorists hate America,” the reality is far more nuanced. U.S. foreign policy in the Middle East played a major role in creating the conditions of al-Qaeda’s attacks.

Osama bin Laden didn’t randomly choose the U.S. as a target. His motivations were explicitly tied to American actions in the Middle East such as:

U.S. troops in Saudi Arabia: After the Gulf War (1990-1991), the U.S. stationed forces in the kingdom that hosts Islam’s two holiest sites. Bin Laden called this “the greatest of calamities” and used it to rally followers.

Support for Israel: U.S. financial and military support for Israel, especially during the Palestinian intifadas, was repeatedly cited in al-Qaeda statements.

Sanctions and bombings in Iraq: The 1990s saw widespread suffering from U.S.-led sanctions and military actions, which bin Laden highlighted as crimes against Muslims.

Backing authoritarian regimes: Support for rulers in Egypt, Saudi Arabia, and elsewhere fed narratives of Western oppression.

Bin Laden’s 1996 fatwa called for expelling U.S. troops from Saudi Arabia. His 1998 fatwa, issued jointly with other jihadist leaders went further: it authorized attacks on Americans, including civilians, citing U.S. presence in Saudi Arabia, sanctions and bombings in Iraq, and support for Israel.

Even after 9/11, he framed the attacks as a defensive retaliation against decades of U.S. policies harming Muslims.

Even American authorities and politicians recognized that foreign policy mattered.

The 9/11 Commission Report (2004): Directly linked al-Qaeda’s motivations to U.S. troops in Saudi Arabia and Middle East policies.

CIA analysts and intelligence officers repeatedly stated that bin Laden’s grievances were policy-driven, not about “hating American freedom.”

Political leaders such as Bill Clinton admitted troop presence enraged bin Laden, and even George W. Bush acknowledged the strategic challenge of stationing forces in Saudi Arabia.

Now, the question is “Could it have been prevented?” Experts highlight several ways different choices might have reduced the risk such as…

Moving U.S. forces out of Saudi Arabia sooner could have removed the most symbolic grievance. Reducing heavy-handed interventions, rethinking support for authoritarian regimes, and avoiding civilian harm could have undermined the al-Qaeda narrative.

Agencies had multiple warnings that something was going to happen but failed to connect the dots. Better sharing might have stopped the plot.

Targeting the financial and communications networks of extremist groups early could have reduced recruitment. And investments in education and development could have made al-Qaeda’s message less appealing to potential recruits.

Even small adjustments in U.S. policy and intelligence could have drastically lowered the likelihood of the attacks.

9/11 wasn’t simply an attack on American freedoms, it was a violent response to decades of U.S. actions in the Middle East. Understanding these connections isn’t about excusing terrorism; it’s about recognizing how foreign policy decisions have real-world consequences. By studying history, we can see how better choices might prevent future tragedies.

TL/DR: 9/11 wasn’t random. Al-Qaeda attacked the U.S. in response to American policies in the Middle East: troops in Saudi Arabia, support for Israel, sanctions and bombings in Iraq, and backing authoritarian regimes. Bin Laden’s fatwas explicitly cited these grievances. U.S. officials later acknowledged the connection. Better foreign policy, intelligent coordination, and limiting extremist networks might have prevented the attacks

Does Love Exist? A Cynic’s Reflection

Keep in mind that I’m writing this as a cynical, misanthropic pessimist, okay? But I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve heard people declare with a mix of bitterness and certainty that “love doesn’t exist.” As if it’s some grand revelation. As if anyone who believes otherwise is naive. Again, coming from a cynist, I think this particular claim misses the mark. Love is real and it’s one of the most undeniable forces in human life.

When someone insists love isn’t real, they’re usually speaking out of pain, disappointment, or distrust. Maybe they were betrayed by a partner, so now love seems like nothing more than a manipulation. Maybe they’ve embraced a biological reductionism: “love is just chemicals firing off in the brain so it doesn’t count.” Maybe they’ve taken their own misanthropy so far that they can’t imagine people acting out of genuine care for one another. I sympathize with all of that, but I don’t buy the conclusion.

If we deny love because it can be explained chemically, we’d have to deny everything else too such as joy, grief, awe, even the taste of a favorite meal. Reduction doesn’t mean negation. Love might be tied to hormones and neurons, but so is every other human experience. That doesn’t make it unreal. It makes it embodied.

If we deny love because people fail at it, because they betray or exploit in its name, then we’d have to deny courage, kindness, or justice too. Every virtue gets betrayed. That doesn’t erase the thing itself, it only proves how fragile and valuable it is.

Love shows up in too many undeniable forms to write it off. A parent staying awake with a sick child. Friends carrying each other through decades of hardship. Strangers risking something for people they’ll never see again. Protestors linking arms against police lines for the sake of those they’ll never meet. Even grief is a form of love. What else is mourning but love with nowhere to go?

Cynicism has its uses. It can cut through illusion and sentimentality. But cynicism that denies love altogether becomes just another illusion, one that pretends detachment will protect us from hurt. In reality, it only leaves us emptier.

Love exists. It’s not perfect, not eternal, not invulnerable. But it is as real as anything else that shapes our lives. Pretending it doesn’t exist won’t make us stronger; it only makes us lonelier.

Christian Absurdism: Faith in the Void

Life is absurd.

The world doesn’t hand us meaning. It just exists. Chaotic, unfair, often cruel. Suffering piles on suffering. Joy feels fragile, fleeting. If you’re honest, none of it adds up to a cosmic plan we can see.

Absurdism says: don’t look away. Don’t pretend work, politics, or legacy will rescue you. Face the absurd head-on. Carry your stone like Sisyphus, and laugh in the struggle.

I agree. But I also believe.

I believe in God. Not because the evidence is overwhelming. Not because a church told me to. I believe because I refuse to accept that the absurd is all there is. My faith is not a tidy answer, it’s a leap into the unknown. If Camus teaches me to live without guarantees, Christianity gives me the courage to hope anyway.

I imagine Sisyphus carrying his stone alongside Christ carrying the cross. Both labors are absurd. Both refuse surrender. Both affirm dignity in the face of despair.

For me, rebellion is faith. To resist capitalism, empire, oppression, and cruelty is a form of worship. It’s saying: “Even in absurdity, there is dignity.” That rebellion is how I live.

But my hope is what sustains me. Absurdism tells me life has no built-in meaning. Christianity lets me trust that, beyond the absurd, there is grace. I don’t need certainty—faith is enough.

I live like Camus. I believe like Kierkegaard. And I refuse to bow to either despair or empire.

Anti-Natalism Isn’t My Most Extreme Position

Most people recoil at the idea of anti-natalism. “But my legacy!” “I need the family name to live on!” “You’re not full until you’ve had a child!” Spare me your bullshit. There’s no altruistic reason to have children. Every reason anyone gives is selfish and self-absorbed. Most people feel like being an anti-natalist is a spit in the face of them and their progeny. Let them think that. I will not back down from this view. I don’t stop at anti-natalism though. My position goes further. I’m pro-omnicide. Yes, I mean that literally: I’m pro the end of all life. Not just humans. Not just animals. All of it.

Life is suffering. That’s not a metaphor. It’s biology. Every living being spends its existence avoiding pain, hunger, sickness, loneliness, decay, and finally death. Even joy is temporary, always shadowed by loss. The very structure of life is cruelty: to live is to feed off of other life.

The one and only true solution to suffering isn’t better medicine or fairer societies (although I wish for those to ease the suffering as well as ending capitalism before we go.) It’s ending life itself. Omnicide is the clean cut, the only guarantee that no more beings — animal or human — will be forced into pain.

There can be comedy in this as well though. It’s not all doom and gloom. Billions of years of evolution, countless wars and inventions, all the books and religions and empires, and it all ends with nothing. Lights out. Curtain call. The universe shrugs and deletes its own save file.

People keep searching for meaning, for some grand story about progress, destiny, or utopia. But the joke is that there is no meaning. The only punchline left is extinction; not tragedy, not triumph, just silence.

Why say this publicly though? Because most people won’t even look in this direction. They’re terrified of questioning the assumption that “life is good.” But if we really care about ethics, if we really care about suffering, then omnicide is the most compassionate conclusion. And if we really embrace the absurd, then there’s no need to dress it up as anything other than what it is: the end of the joke.

I don’t expect anyone to agree with me, but I also don’t think the can refute me, try as they might. They can’t deny that suffering defines life. And they can’t deny that omnicide would end it once and for all.

That’s why I’m pro-omnicide. Not because of a hatred for life, but because I see life for what it is.

Before the First Breath

There was a place before time, a waiting room in the folds of nothingness. There was no darkness, but there was no light, either. There was nothing but complete stillness. Potential beings drifted here and each offered a vision which was the life that would be theirs, should they choose to step through the veil into existence.

One of them — call it a soul, or a spark, or simply a question — opened its eyes to see what awaited.

A vision bloomed. Hunger. Cold. A cradle rocking in the middle of the night. There was also the ache of wanting, the weight of labor. Love, yes, but always fragile and bound to loss. Empires rose and fell. Violence was passed down like an heirloom. Laughter was sharp and fleeting before being swallowed by silence. And at the end, the long erosion into death.

The being considered. Others leapt eagerly, as if dazzled by the brief shimmer of joy, or blinded by the promise of meaning. They hurled themselves forward into the gamble of flesh. Just one, just this one, lingered though. It watched and it knew: every joy would be purchased with pain. Every heartbeat a debt to entropy. To enter was to be consumed. All of this and it turned away.

In its refusing, it became something else; not a person, not a ghost, but the purity of absence. Freedom unscarred by time. A truth only the unborn could carry. Simply not entering the game was the only victory the game could never touch.

A Prophet and a Nihilist Walk into a Bar

I’ve loved stand-up comedy since high school. I even did my own set a few times years ago (I wasn’t very good at it. Need to research comedic timing more.) My all-time favorite comedian is Bill Hicks (rest in power.) He wasn’t just a comic, he was a prophet. He tried to open the eyes of the public at large to how they were being fucked and just sitting back and taking it. He was a fierce social critic. Other aspiring comedians might want to be like Carlin or Pryor or Lenny Bruce or Sam Kinison. I wanted to be like Bill Hicks.

Another comedian I love — who I think carries Hicks’ torch and also burns the world down with it — is Doug Stanhope. He doesn’t care about waking people up. He doesn’t even give a shit if he bombs on stage. He’ll just get bombed on alcohol while he bombs on stage.

Comedy has always had its rebels and these two fit that description. Hicks wanted to wake you up. Stanhope wants to drag you into the abyss with him. Both are/were uncompromising, dark, and unwilling to sell out. However, their philosophies couldn’t be more different.

Let’s start with Hicks. Hicks gave a shit. He wasn’t just telling jokes; he was preaching. Every set was a sermon against consumerism, war, censorship, and blind conformity. He wanted audiences to see through the veil, to wake up. When a joke bombed, it stung him. It didn’t just mean the laugh was missing, it meant the message hadn’t landed. Hicks carried the weight of a prophet, a sense that comedy could save humanity if only enough people listened. His core drive was enlightenment through laughter. His tone — righteous, sermon-like; a preacher in a smokey comedy club. His view of humanity was misanthropic but hopeful. Humanity was flawed, but people would wake up. And when he bombed on stage it was a personal wound, proof at how far gone society was.

Hicks’ legacy is almost biblical. Fans and admirers treat him less like a comic and more like a visionary who used a microphone as his pulpit.

Then there’s Doug Stanhope: the nihilist who doesn’t give a fuck. Comedy isn’t a sermon to him. It’s a dare. Can he say the most obscene, brutally honest thing in the room and still stand there, beer in hand, while the audience squirms? If Hicks bombed, it hurt. If Stanhope bombs, it’s just another outcome. Sometimes it’s even the point. Walkouts, police calls, physical confrontations, they’re not failures … they’re souvenirs. Stanhope is more amusement through honesty. He’s kind of like your drunk, nihilistic, misanthropic uncle who doesn’t sugarcoat shit. His view of humanity is that it’s hopeless and it’s best to laugh at the chaos. When he bombs, he’s neutral and sometimes even celebrates and that shows that he’s not just pandering to his audience.

Stanhope’s legacy isn’t prophetic, it’s apocalyptic. He doesn’t offer hope; he offers anesthesia. He’s not here to save you; he’s here to mock you while the ship goes down.

So you have a prophet and a nihilist. There’s a good set up: “A prophet and a nihilist walk into a bar.” Hicks wanted comedy to save the world. Stanhope wants comedy to burn it all down … or at least make the collapse funnier.

Hicks was a preacher who believed in laughter as a path to truth. Stanhope is a nihilist who believes truth is unbearable, so we might as well laugh while we’re here. Hicks aimed for transcendence. Stanhope embraces the gutter. Both approaches matter. Both expose the absurdity of life and culture. But where Hicks offered a vision of redemption, Stanhope only offers a toast to the void.

Hicks is remembered as a voice of moral clarity in a corrupt world. Stanhope is like Heath Ledger’s Joker. One pointed toward the light. The other cackles in the dark. Maybe comedy needs both: the prophet to believe change is possible, and the nihilist to remind us that, even if it isn’t, the laugh is still worth it.