I Believe

I believe capitalism is a scam. It’s a pyramid scheme that exploits labor, commodifies life, and rewards sociopathy. It needs to go.

I believe the state serves capital, not people. Real power lies with the rich, and the state protects their wealth–not our freedom.

I believe direct action matters. Real change comes from disruption, not politely asking for crumbs.

I believe mutual aid>charity. We should build systems of care that don’t depend on billionaires “giving back” stolen wealth.

I believe hierarchy is the problem. Bosses, cops, landlords, or tech bros pretending to be geniuses–power concentrated in the hands of a few always leads to abuse.

I believe in organizing locally to disrupt globally. We need tight, local networks and chaotic energy aimed at breaking down systems everywhere.

I believe electoral politics is a tactic, not a solution. Voting might buy us time, but it won’t save us.

I believe life is absurd. When reality feels like a joke then fight back with humor, mockery, and meaning-making of your own.

I believe anti-natalism isn’t nihilism. Refusing to create new life in a broken world can be an act of radical empathy.

I believe revolution isn’t just possible–it’s necessary. It doesn’t have to look like the past. It can be weirder, funnier, more chaotic, and more human.

Why I Choose to Believe in God and Still Support Abortion and Socialism

Some people think believing in God means aligning with the conservative status quo–opposing abortion, defending capitalism, and preaching personal responsibility while ignoring systemic injustice. I don’t. I believe in God, and I support abortion rights. I believe in socialism too. And no, I’m not confused.

This isn’t a contradiction. It’s a deliberate choice.

Faith isn’t a monolith

Religion in America has been hijacked by the right, turned into a weapon of control instead of a source of liberation. But faith isn’t theirs to own. History is full of radical, justice-driven believers–liberation theologians in Latin America, Black churches in the Civil Rights movement, even the early Christians who lived communally and rejected materialism.

My belief in God is rooted in those traditions. The God I believe in doesn’t demand blind obedience to the state or to billionaires. That God doesn’t shrink at questions or doubt. That God isn’t afraid of justice.

I didn’t inherent my faith fully formed–I wrestled with it. I still do. But I choose to believe because I refuse to accept that this world, in all its cruelty and absurdity, is the end of the story. I believe because somewhere inside me, hope refuses to die although it tries to every single fucking day.

I support abortion because I believe in compassion. Because forcing someone to carry a pregnancy they don’t want–especially in a world that is broken–is violence, not virtue. Because I believe in bodily autonomy. Because I’ve seen what happens when that autonomy is stripped away.

The God I believe in gave people free will. That includes the right to make choices about their own bodies. No government or church should have the power to override that. And if you think banning abortion is “pro-life,” but you’re silent about poverty, maternal mortality, and the children already suffering in this world, your morality is hollow.

You can’t claim to care about life and then ignore the lives of women, trans people, and anyone else whose bodies are up for debate.

Jesus wasn’t a capitalist.

Let’s be clear: If Jesus showed up today, a lot of Christians wouldn’t recognize him. He wasn’t a billionaire. He didn’t hang out with the rich and powerful. He called them out. He flipped tables in the temple and told a rich man to give everything away.

Sound like capitalism to you?

Socialism, at its core, is about taking care of each other. Feeding the hungry. Healing the sick. Building systems that value human lives over profits. I support socialism because I believe we have a responsibility to each other–especially to the most vulnerable.

It’s bizarre how many Christians defend billionaires, corporations, and hoarding wealth while ignoring every single thing Jesus actually said about money and power.

The real betrayal of faith isn’t in questioning doctrine, it’s in using God to justify cruelty. It’s in standing by while people suffer, clinging to a theology of control. I won’t do that. I believe in God. I am a Christian. And because of that, I support a world where people are free. Free to live, to choose, to thrive. I support abortion rights. I support socialism. And I believe God is big enough to hold both my faith and my fire for justice.

A Movie Star and Reality Show Star President

What does it say about conservatives that their two idols are Reagan: a polished actor who turned smiling while gutting social programs into an art form. He kicked off the modern era of trickle-down economics, mass incarceration, union busting, and “government is the problem” rhetoric. He was the velvet glove over the iron fist of neoliberalism.

Then there’s Trump: A brash, gold-plated conman who ditched the velvet glove entirely and wrapped the fist in a red hat. He turned politics into a circus, embraced open corruption, and fed white grievance politics with a firehose.

So what does it say that these two are the main idols of conservatives and the Republican party?

It says they worship aesthetics over ethics. Reagan sold the dream while hollowing it out; Trump hawks the nightmare as a feature. Together, they represent the conservative id: nostalgia, hierarchy, wealth worship, and cruelty–first dressed in a cowboy hat, then in a golf cap.

Reagan and Trump are less political figures and more myths–icons of conservative longing. But the values they embody reveal a lot about the psychology of the American right.

Conservatives idolized Reagan for what he symbolized:

A return to tradition after the upheaval of the 60s and 70s–code for putting women, people of color, and the working class back in their place. He was patriotic, optimistic, and deeply hollow. He gutted the social safety net, helped catalyze the AIDS crisis through negligence, and kicked off the war on drugs that became a war on Black communities.

His trickle-down economics, which conservatives still cling to like a religion despite 40+ years of evidence that it doesn’t work was sucked up and hoarded.

Reagan is idolized not because he helped people, but because he helped the right people–corporations, the rich, and white suburbia–feel good about stepping on everyone else.

Then you have Trump. Where Reagan was the polished actor, Trump is the reality TV boss–all ego, rage, and spectacle. His rise didn’t replace Reaganism it revealed what was always beneath it:

Open authoritarianism instead of coded dog whistles.

Grievance politics centered on the loss of white, male, Christian dominance.

Blatant corruption celebrated as “winning” by his followers.

What do these two say about conservatives as a whole? They value dominance over democracy. Both reinforced hierarchies: racial, economic, gendered, and that’s the point. The conservative movement today isn’t about ideas, it’s about keeping their group on top.

They prioritize feelings over facts. Reagan made conservatives feel safe. Trump makes them feel powerful. The results don’t matter. It’s vibes all the way down.

They replace accountability. Reagan dodged responsibility for Iran-Contra. Trump dodges it for everything. In both cases, the base cheers the escape, not the truth.

They long for a mythical past. Reagan promised a return to a golden age that never existed. Trump promised the same only louder, meaner, and with more gold plating. Both feed the same nostalgia machine that keeps people looking backward instead of forward.

Worshiping Reagan and Trump isn’t about policy. It’s about identity, fantasy, and fear. One sold the myth with a smile. The other screamed it into a megaphone. Either way, it’s about clinging to a dying order and pretending it’s salvation.

They’re not ideologically consistent heroes, they’re mascots of the decline.

TV Shows as Literature

I’m re-watching the show “The Wire” and when I first watched it years ago, I felt that it played out like a really good book. That’s exactly what it is: a book that happens to be played out on screen.

There’s dense, literary writing. The dialogue isn’t dumbed down. It trusts the audience to keep up. Characters speak in their own rhythms, slang, and dialects without exposition dumps. Like in a novel, you have to infer meaning from the context. It also unfolds slowly, like layered storytelling. There are so many details that pay off later. Threads from earlier episodes or seasons come back in meaningful ways–like motifs in a novel.

The huge ensemble cast presents multiple POVs just like in a novel. There’s no single protagonist. You jump between characters on different levels of society–from cops to kingpins, teachers to kids, journalists to politicians.It’s not about “what happens next.” It’s about why systems fail–the drug war, education, the media, capitalism. It’s about institutions grinding people down.

There’s also the moral complexity. There are no good guys or bad guys. There are just flawed people trying to survive. Like in a serious novel, everyone is both protagonist and antagonist, depending on the chapter.

It’s one of those rare shows where the more attention you give it, the more it gives back. Much like in a good book, it wants you to sit with it, rewatch it as I’m doing right now, and pick it apart.

“You come at the king, you best not miss.” -Omar Little

The Conspiracy Against the Human Race

I know I listed my top five favorite books and two books that changed my life, but there’s another one that deserves recognition: Thomas Ligotti’s The Conspiracy Against the Human Race. I’d been wanting this book for a while after seeing the first season of True Detective and after considering myself an anti-natalist. I was looking for any kind of anti-natalist literature and lo and behold, I found it.

This book is a philosophical gut punch that argues human consciousness is a cosmic mistake. Ligotti draws from horror, neuroscience, and pessimism and makes the case that existence is inherently horrific, the self is an illusion, and the kindest act would be to stop reproducing.

It’s a deep but deeply thought-provoking exploration of pessimism, anti-natalism, and the horror of consciousness. A few take aways from it are as follows:

Consciousness is a curse. Ligotti argues that self-awareness–what sets humans apart from animals–is not a gift but a burden. We’re aware of our mortality, our suffering, and the meaninglessness of existence. “Being alive is like being a sentient tumor.”

Life is inherently horrific. He draws from horror fiction and philosophy and suggests that horror is the most honest genre because it doesn’t shy away from the ugly truth: life is terrifying, random, and cruel.

Anti-Natalism is a logical response. He builds on David Bentar (another man I admire)’s arguments to suggest that the kindest thing we could do is stop reproducing. He believes, much like Benatar and I do, that bringing someone into existence is always a harm. As he says in the book, “Nonexistence never hurt anyone.”

The illusion of self and meaning. Ligotti sides with thinkers who believe the self is an illusion and that the narratives we tell ourselves: religion, humanism, even optimism are coping mechanisms, not truth.

The book offers no comfort. There’s no “and yet” at the end. There’s no redemption arc. Ligotti commits to the darkness. The value is in the clarity it offers–cutting through hope to stare directly at what existence may really be.

It’s a cold shower of a book. It won’t give you hope, but it might give you clarity, or at least solidarity in despair.

If Libertarian Socialists Reject Electoral Policies

… how do they expect to get things done?

Their goal isn’t to take over the state and reform it, but to build alternatives to it such as:

Dual power structures such as community mutual aid, worker cooperatives, and tenant unions that meet people’s needs outside the capitalist system and slowly replace it. Also, they’re more for strikes, blockades, occupations, and sabotage–anything that directly disrupts unjust systems or forces change without begging those in power.

We believe in building the world we want now in how we organize–democratic, non-hierarchical so that the means align with the ends. Also, some of us believe that when capitalist structures inevitably fail or crack (due to crisis, climate collapse, etc.) grassroots structures can scale up and step in.

Electoral politics are a trap designed to absorb radical energy into endless compromise and bureaucracy, rather than truly change the system. Trying to win power within a corrupt system just legitimizes it.

That said, some of us are pragmatic and support limited electoral strategies–like voting to stop fascists or pushing for policies that give people breathing room to organize like voting for eviction moratoriums while building tenant unions.

Official Member of the Democratic Socialists of America

I recently received my membership card from the Democratic Socialists of America. I also donate a few bucks a month to this organization. Now, you may be saying, “But Kafkaphony, you’re a Libertarian Socialist. What’s this about?”

Well, libertarian socialists don’t have a website because they are more decentralized by nature. Libertarian socialists are inherently suspicious of centralized power–even in organizations. So creating a single “official” website or group is contradictory to a lot in the movement. Also, the DSA has membership dues, elected leadership, and is involved in electoral politics. Libertarian socialists reject those kinds of structures, which means they lack the resources to build or maintain polished sites or public campaigns.

So, how can I be a libertarian socialist and donate to the DSA? I like to work within the DSA for strategic reasons. The DSA is a “big tent” and includes: Marxists, social Democrats, Democratic socialists (obviously), libertarian socialists, and even some anarchists and syndicalists.

The DSA is a vehicle, not an identity. It’s a way to build power, influence policy, and meet like-minded people, even if the ultimate goal (like abolishing the state or capitalism entirely) goes beyond what the DSA is currently pushing.

I prefer to use the DSA to push for reforms that improve people’s lives now, even if the long-term goal is revolution or abolition of hierarchies. I use it for organizing opportunities like meeting people who might be down for more radical actions outside of the DSA. It’s also for learning skills, gaining political, experience, and building networks.

There will be disagreements between the two though. The DSA sometimes supports electoral politics, which some libertarian socialists reject. However, it’s the best we’ve got right now. I don’t have to buy into the DSA’s entire platform.

I plan on using the DSA to connect with organizers, practice power building, and to push for transformative demands, but I’m always keeping my eye on the bigger picture: dismantling capitalism, hierarchy, and the state–not just reforming them. I’m looking for shared goals and ways to push the DSA further left by putting theory into action.

What I Learned from Malcolm X

I’ve just finished The Autobiography of Malcolm X today. It took me a week to read it and I loved every page. We weren’t taught much about Malcolm X in school, more about people like Rosa Parks and MLK. So I was interested in reading about him for myself, but I also wondered, “What can I, a white, Southern person learn from a black man from Harlem?” The answer is quite a bit.

The book is a deep exploration of power, transformation, and systemic oppression. As a white person, here are some of my takeaways:

Malcolm X detailed how racism is woven into American institutions, from schools to the legal system. Seeing it from his perspective exposed blind spots I never noticed before. These issues are still going on today and the Civil Rights movement ended decades ago.

The book makes it clear that racism isn’t just about personal prejudice but a system that shapes people’s lives from birth. Malcolm X’s experiences with teachers, the criminal justice system, and media narratives all reinforce this. The criminal justice system is still, in 2025 wrought with prejudice against those of color and the poor.

I always just thought Malcolm X was a racist who hated white people, but I’ve learned he was so much more than that. His rage at white America wasn’t irrational–it was a response to generations of oppression. His story forced me to confront the reasons behind that anger instead of dismissing it.

His transformation from a hustler to a political leader showed me the power of self-education. As I become more politically involved and lean more into libertarian socialism, I’m learning more and more about the power of self-education. It shows that there’s a lesson in there that people can change, including how we perceive race and privilege and politics.

Malcolm X’s views evolved over time, just as mine have. He went from being against white America until his pilgrimage to Mecca. He started with a hard separatist perspective but later saw the potential for solidarity across racial lines. That evolution is crucial–realizing that no single perspective is fixed.

Lastly, while Malcolm X was skeptical of white allies, he also acknowledged that some could play a role in dismantling white supremacy. His challenge to white people was to do the work among other white people rather than expecting praise from black activists.

Ultimately, the book isn’t just about race. It’s about seeing the world as it really is, questioning power, and committing to real change. I think if you read it with an open mind as I did, it can be a transformative experience.

Two Books That Changed My Life

I know I posted my top five favorite books, but I thought I’d post the two books that changed my life in impactful ways and discuss them a little. Coincidentally, they’re both from my top five list.

The Stranger by Albert Camus has affirmed my sense of absurdity. Meursault (main character)’s indifference, his refusal to feign emotion for society’s sake resonates with my own misanthropy. His detachment from norms helped me feel less alien in a world that demands people fake performances of meaning and morality. The book’s cold eye on things like funerals, justice, and religion strengthened my distrust in institutions, and it gave me permission to question the systems we’re told to respect–even if they’re hollow.

Camus’ exploration of life’s absurdity–the idea that existence lacks inherent meaning–has sharpened my anti-natalist views that bringing new life into a meaningless, and often cruel world is unethical. Life isn’t a gift. It’s an imposition.

Meursault doesn’t pretend to be anything but himself, even when it might save him. That’s the kind of integrity I aspire to, even if it makes me weird. As far as the ending of the book–Meursault accepting the absurd and facing death without illusions–it mirrors my own attempt to live authentically in a chaotic world.

The Myth of Sisyphus, also by Albert Camus, had an even deeper influence on me than The Stranger. It gave me a way to live with absurdity. Before Camus, absurdity felt like a huge weight, a realization that life has no inherent meaning and that could easily lead to despair and eventually suicide. This book showed me another path: instead of seeking meaning or collapsing under nihilism, I can simply accept life’s absurdity and keep pushing forward.

It also reinforced my rejection of false hope. Camus’ critique of “philosophical suicide”–the way people escape absurdity through religion, ideology, or forced optimism–resonated with me deeply. I refuse to cling to comforting illusions, whether it’s capitalism’s promises or religious dogmas. I used to suppress illusions with drugs and alcohol. Now, I choose to face reality, no matter how bleak.

It has also helped with my political views. Sisyphus’s struggle isn’t just personal, it’s an act of defiance. Pushing the boulder, knowing it will never stay at the top, mirrors my approach to wanting to fight capitalism. I’m aware the system is monstrous, victories are temporary, but I choose to fight anyway, and not because I expect some final triumph, but because the struggle itself is worth it.

And lastly, it aligns with my misanthropy and humor. My messing with people politically and my sense of humor fit within Camus’ absurdist outlook. I want to weaponize absurdity and turn meaninglessness into a playground.

Why I Hate Capitalism

I hate capitalism because I see it as an exploitative system that prioritizes profit over people, rewards hoarding over fairness, and creates needless suffering. I don’t just dislike capitalism in theory, I see its effects everywhere, from healthcare failures to economic inequality, and it pisses me off.

I’m trying to actively challenge it through writing, memes, protesting, and writing to various activists and politicians. And let’s be real: capitalism’s defenders annoy the hell out of me with their smug certainty that the system is “natural” or “the best we can do.” It’s not just about economics; it’s about control, injustice, and a system that refuses to let people live with dignity.

The rich keep getting richer and the poor keep getting poorer. And every time someone points it out, capitalists scramble to say, “Actually, poverty has decreased globally!” as if that justifies billionaires hoarding obscene wealth while workers struggle to afford rent. The system is rigged so wealth concentrates at the top, and instead of fixing it, people are told to work harder, invest smarter, or stop buying lattes.

Meanwhile, billionaires can tank entire economies, exploit workers, and dodge taxes with no consequences. The only thing that trickles down is misery. I’m right to hate it. The real question is: what’s the next move?