The Government Just Gave Itself Permission to Ignore the Law

Let’s not sugarcoat this: the U.S. government is gutting what little remains of “checks and balances,” and most people are too distracted or disillusioned to notice.

Buried inside a House bill—unrelated to taxes, mind you—is a ticking time bomb aimed directly at the rule of law. A quiet little provision would block all funding to enforce contempt of court orders. Read that again. If this passes, the executive branch can ignore court rulings with zero consequences. It’s not just a loophole—it’s a license to violate the Constitution.

Professor Erwin Chemerinsky, a constitutional law expert, laid it out plainly: if the government defies a judge, nothing can be done to force compliance. No enforcement. No consequences. No rule of law. “The greatest effect of adopting the provision,” he warns, “would be to make countless existing judicial orders unenforceable.” Translation: the courts become a theater of empty gestures, while the executive runs wild.

This isn’t theoretical. The Trump administration has already ignored court orders, including the Supreme Court’s ruling to return Kilmar Armando Abrego Garcia from a black-site-style detention in El Salvador. They just didn’t do it. And now? They’re trying to make that standard operating procedure.

This is what a dying democracy looks like: not in flames, but in red tape and fine print. Congress didn’t vote to abolish the Constitution—they just cut its funding.If you still think the system can be fixed from within, ask yourself: What happens when the system rewrites the rules to ignore its own crimes?

This is not just a Trump issue. This is a bipartisan rot. They’ve built a government that polices protestors, jails whistleblowers, and spies on everyone—but suddenly when it comes to holding itself accountable, it’s “too expensive” to enforce the law?

The lesson is clear: the government does not fear the courts. It fears accountability. And it will rewrite reality itself to avoid it.

Burn your illusions. The state is not your protector. It’s a self-perpetuating power machine, and it just found a way to cut the brakes.

“Every Life is Precious!”

Says the GOP, while slashing Medicaid and SNAP that keep actual people alive.

Joni Ernst: “Well we all are going to die.” That’s the GOP’s response when people warn cuts will kill the poor, the sick, and the elderly.

So let me get this straight:

A fetus = sacred.

A hungry child = expendable.

A disabled adult on Medicaid = acceptable casualty?

If “life is precious,” maybe stop pushing policies that treat it like a budget item.This isn’t pro-life. It’s pro-birth, pro-corporate, and anti-human.

When Was America Ever “Great”?

“Make America Great Again!”

I’m tired of hearing it. Not just because it’s overused, but because every time someone says it, I want to ask: “When, exactly, was America great? And for whom?”

It’s a nostalgic slogan, sure. But nostalgia has a habit of airbrushing the past until only the myths remain.

Let’s break it down.

Was America “great” economically?

Maybe during the post-WWII boom. But that was also a time when women were shoved out of the workforce and back into the kitchen. Black Americans were still living under Jim Crow. Unions were strong, but mostly white. The middle class was expanding, but only if you fit the mold.

Militarily?

America’s always had a big stick. But we’ve also used it to prop up dictators, overthrow elected governments, and keep the Global South under our thumb. That’s not greatness — that’s empire.

Culturally?

Sure, American art, music, and innovation have been influential. But much of that greatness came in spite of the system and not because of it. Black musicians, queer writers, immigrant inventors — they created brilliance while fighting for the right to exist.

So who was America great for?

White, straight, cisgender men with money. Everyone else had to fight for scraps or fight to survive.

That’s what “Make America Great Again” means to a lot of people: Make it comfortable again for the people who used to have a monopoly on power. It’s not about greatness. It’s about control.

We don’t need to make America “great again.” We need to make something entirely new. Something built on truth, equity, and justice — not nostalgia for a past that never existed for most of us.

Even Elon Musk Thinks the New “Big Beautiful Bill” is a Joke

You know a bill is bad when even Apartheid Clyde — the meme king of capitalism and Trump’s former efficiency czar — calls it out.

Apartheid Clyde took aim at the Republican-backed “One Big Beautiful Bill Act,” (yes, that’s the actual name of the bill. No, I’m not shitting you.) It’s a monstrosity of legislation that somehow manages to combine massive tax cuts for the rich, bloated defense spending, Medicaid restrictions, and a fresh punch in the gut to clean energy. And just like that, Republicans have found a way to spend trillions while pretending they’re fiscally conservative.

Apartheid Clyde, who once led the Department of Government Efficiency (DOGE) under Trump, publicly slammed the bill for ballooning the deficit and betraying the message of DOGE. “It can be big or beautiful, not both,” Musk quipped, a rare moment of clarity from someone who once called himself a “free speech absolutist” while banning critics from Twitter (I’m still never calling it “X.”)

Let’s be real: Apartheid Clyde isn’t exactly a paragon of progressive virtue. This is the guy who spends his time playing CEO cosplay and beefing with journalists online. But when even he is sounding the alarm on a Republican spending bill, you know it’s not just ugly — it’s a Trojan horse stuffed with billionaire tax breaks and red meat for MAGA donors.

The Congressional Office Budget estimates this “beautiful” disaster will add $3.8 trillion to the national debt over the next decade. That’s more than the GDP of Germany, and somehow, the Republicans still claim we “can’t afford” student loan forgiveness or universal healthcare.

So why is Apartheid Clyde breaking ranks now? Simple. The bill fucks with his brand. It undercuts clean energy (bad for Tesla), bloats defense (bad for his whole “efficiency” thing), and makes him look like a sucker for ever aligning with Mango Mussolini in the first place. Self-interest is a hell of a drug.

Still, his critique opens a window: when even a techno-libertarian billionaire thinks the GOP has lost the plot, maybe it’s time to stop pretending they ever had one. The “Big Beautiful Bill” isn’t governance. It’s graft dressed up in patriotic drag.

If you’re pissed about this bill, don’t just laugh at Apartheid Clyde’s tweets. Organize. Disrupt. And remember: the people writing this legislation don’t care if you live, as long as they get paid.

The Hardest Thing to Do is to Do Nothing

I mentioned a while back my top five favorite books. One of which is Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace. On its surface it’s about addiction, entertainment, and tennis, but I got something more out of it, especially after reading it a second time. It cracked open a hard truth: most of us are addicted, not just to substances or screens, but to never being still.

The characters in the book are addicts in every sense: addicted to drugs, entertainment, achievement, self-destruction. But underneath it all is a deeper affliction: a fear of sitting with themselves. A fear of silence. A fear of being. That hit me hard.

We live in a culture wired to keep us stimulated. Boredom has become unbearable. Stillness feels like a threat. We scroll endlessly, binge-watch, overwork, overthink. We’re so used to noise that silence starts to feel like failure. And Infinite Jest doesn’t just expose this, it rubs your face in it. Over and over. For over 1000 pages.

Wallace seemed to understand that the most addictive thing in the world isn’t drugs or fame or entertainment. It’s escape. And the most radical, uncomfortable act in a world built on escape may be to simply sit. To be quiet. To be present with your own mind without numbing it, avoiding it, or filling it with static.

Reading Infinite Jest is kind of like detox. You get frustrated. You want to look away. You want to grab your phone. You want out. And maybe that’s the point. The book is an endurance test, not just of attention, but of self-confrontation. It doesn’t reward you with answers, it dares you to sit in the mess and feel it.

And maybe that’s where recovery — whatever that means for each of us — actually begins.

Burn It Down

Not with fire and torches. It’s time to accept what we already know deep down: this system is broken beyond repair. No amount of voting, begging, or incremental reform is going to fix the rotting corpse of capitalism. We’re not dealing with a system that needs tweaks. We’re dealing with a system that feeds on exploitation, shits out injustice, and hands us a smiley face sticker for surviving another day under it.

We keep getting told we just need to be patient. That change is slow. That “the adults are in charge.” Meanwhile, the planet’s boiling, wages are stagnant, housing is a scam, billionaires are playing god, and the police still treat poor people like target practice.

How much more do we need to see before we admit this isn’t a glitch … it’s the design?

We don’t need to fix the system. We need to replace it. All of it. The politics, the economy, the structures that define who gets to live with dignity and who gets ground into dust. We’ve spent decades duct-taping injustice and calling it progress. That era’s over. It’s time for a clean break.

We need to start over. From scratch. Build something that works for everyone.

That means no more letting the wealthy write the rules. No more pretending corporations are people. No more parties that pretend to fight each other while feasting at the same donor buffet. No more bootlicking billionaires like they’re gods just because they hoarded enough money to make themselves unaccountable.

Let’s stop asking how we can work within the system. Start asking how we can undermine it. How can we hack it, sabotage it, expose it, and ultimately make it irrelevant.

It’s not radical to want food, housing, healthcare, and freedom. What’s radical is tolerating a system that denies those things in the name of “freedom.” What’s radical is watching the wealthy hoard enough money to end world hunger while telling the rest of us to work harder.

We are not obligated to keep this going. We don’t owe this system our loyalty. The people in power want us to believe we’re powerless without them. But the truth is that they’re nothing without us.

It’s time to organize. To disrupt. To create parallel systems. Mutual aid, worker co-ops, community defense, direct action, cyber sabotage, mass noncompliance — whatever it takes to grind the gears and flip the switch.

Overthrow doesn’t have to look like a revolution with marching bands and guillotines. (Though … you never know.) It can look like refusing to play along. It can look like walking away from the scripts they hand us and writing something new.

This isn’t a call to chaos. It’s a call to clarity. The future is not going to be handed to us — we have to take it.

Tear it down. Start over. Let’s build something worth living in.

Love is a Choice

We’re taught to think of love as something that happens to us, like a lightning bolt out of nowhere. Movies and songs frame love as this overwhelming emotion that sweeps you off your feet and takes over your life. But that version of love, while intoxicating, is incomplete.

Love isn’t just a feeling. It’s a choice.

Anyone who’s been in a long-term relationship—romantic, familial, or platonic—knows that emotions are fickle. Some days, you feel deeply connected. Other days, you don’t feel much at all. Life gets in the way. People change. Routines dull the spark. Stress takes a toll.

If love were only an emotion, it wouldn’t survive these cycles. But if love is a choice, then it can endure. Because choice isn’t reactive. It’s active. You decide to keep showing up, to keep caring, to keep investing.

When you choose love, you take ownership. You’re not just along for the ride. You’re steering. That means:

You don’t walk away when it’s hard.

You apologize when you screw up.

You listen when you’d rather be right.

You support when you’re tired.

You stay when it would be easier to leave.

It’s not always romantic. It’s rarely easy. But it’s real.

“Falling in love” is passive. It implies we had no say in the matter. That sounds nice until things fall apart, and then suddenly, we’re powerless again. But love, when it’s a choice, gives us power. Not control over the other person, but control over how we love.

You don’t “fall” into long-term love. You build it. Brick by brick. Day by day. Choice by choice.

Like a craft or a discipline, love improves with practice. You can get better at being patient, at setting boundaries, at giving grace, at showing up. None of those are feelings. They’re skills. Feelings can inspire love. They can deepen it. But they can’t sustain it alone.

Love that’s only emotional burns hot and fast. But love that’s chosen—again and again, on the good days and the bad ones—is firewood. It keeps you warm for a lifetime.

From Absurdist to Nihilist (Tentatively): Watching the World Undermine Meaning

I never expected to inch toward nihilism. For years, absurdism kept me afloat. Camus’ defiance in the face of meaninglessness, the idea that you can laugh at the chaos even when it’s crushing you. That you can push the boulder up the hill again and again and still find joy — or at least rebellion — in the act.

But lately, I’ve been staring at that hill and wondering if it’s even worth approaching anymore.

The world feels like it’s daring us to stop believing. The U.S. is caught in a feedback loop of delusion and decay. Billionaires play empire while the rest of us drown in rent, debt, heatwaves, and endless headlines. Climate collapse isn’t creeping anymore; it’s sprinting. The political system’s not broken, it’s working exactly as designed to protect capital and crush dissent. The cruelty isn’t a glitch; it’s a feature.

I used to think absurdism gave me a way through it; that laughing at the system, mocking it, refusing to surrender meaning to it, was a form of resistance. And maybe it still is. But there’s a point where the laugh feels hollow. Where the defiance feels like theater, and the audience left the building years ago.

I’m not fully gone. Not yet. There’s still a part of me that wants to spit in the face of despair and dare it to flinch. That wants to imagine Sisyphus happy, even if only out of spite.

But I’d be lying if I said nihilism isn’t whispering louder lately. Not the cartoon nihilism that gets misrepresented — not the “nothing matters so do whatever” kind — but the cold, empty realization that maybe there really is no justice coming. No redemption arc. No meaning to extract or invent. Just survival, until we can’t anymore.

I don’t know if this shift is a phase, a spiral, or a new state of being. But I know I’m not alone in feeling it. The world is making nihilists faster than it makes meaning.

And maybe admitting that — even tentatively — is the first honest thing I’ve done in a while.

I’m Not a Liberal, I Just Make Sense: Why Labels Fall Short

It happens all the time. I challenge right-wing talking points, call out capitalist exploitation, or support basic human rights, and suddenly — boom — I’m a “liberal.” As if that’s the end of the discussion. As if being anti-fascist or pro-worker automatically plants me squarely in the Democratic Party’s center-left garden.

Let me be clear: I am not a liberal. I just live in a country so far to the right that calling for universal healthcare, climate action, or labor rights feels like revolution.

Why people call me a liberal:

I argue with conservatives.
- Apparently, in the American binary brain, if you’re not parroting Fox News or defending billionaires, you must be a Democrat. The idea that there’s something to the left of liberals is unthinkable to many.
I care about people
- When you defend the poor, the unhoused, immigrants, or even the basic right not to die from lack of insulin, people assume you’re a part of the “bleeding heart” liberal crowd. As if compassion is a party platform rather than a moral baseline.
I don’t support Trump
- That alone gets you painted blue in some circles. Never mind that opposing authoritarianism, racism, or conspiracy cults isn’t a matter of party loyalty — it’s basic sanity.

Why I’m not a liberal

Liberals love capitalism. I want to overthrow it.
- Liberals think the system is mostly fine and just needs tweaks. I think the system is fundamentally broken and built on exploitation. We don’t need nicer capitalism — we need a new world.
Liberals believe in reform. I believe in rupture.
- Liberals put their faith in voting, committees, and incrementalism. I believe the change we need won’t come from polite asks or polished speeches. It’ll come from disruption, pressure, and direct action.
Liberals want to return to “normal.” I want to move forward.
- “Normal” gave us Trump, climate collapse, and a society that treats people as disposable. I don’t want to go back. I want something radically better.
Liberals apologize for empire. I oppose it.
- Whether it’s war, coups, or sanctions, liberals rarely challenge American imperialism. I do — because solidarity shouldn’t stop at our borders.

So what am I?

Call me a leftist. A socialist. A troublemaker. An anti-capitalist. A human being tired of being told the best we can do is Joe Biden or Kamala Harris with a side of despair. Just don’t call me a liberal.

Because I’m not here to make capitalism kinder. I’m here to make it history.

Whatever Happened to Fun Conspiracy Theories?

Remember when conspiracy theories used to be fun?

Back in the day, the tinfoil hat crowd was busy decoding crop circles, talking about secret alien bases under the Denver Airport, and wondering if the U.S. Navy accidentally teleported a warship in the 1940s. Sure, it was a little kooky, but it was mostly harmless, speculative sci-fi for weirdos with late-night radio and too much time on their hands.

We used The Philadelphia Experiment. Area 51. Roswell. Government time travel, secret Nazi moon bases, reptilian shapeshifters in Buckingham Palace. Were any of them true? Probably not. But they were imaginative. They gave us something strange to chew on–a kind of Cold War campfire mythology. These were conspiracy theories born out of curiosity and skepticism, not hatred or delusion.

Then something changed.

Somewhere in the 2000s, the weird wonder of conspiracy gave way to a much darker, dumber version of itself. Suddenly, conspiracy theories weren’t about aliens and teleportation. They were about vaccines causing autism, school shootings being faked, or a Satanic cabal of pedophiles controlling Hollywood and the Democratic Party. Fun got replaced with fascism.

What the hell happened?

Well, a few things, actually:

The Internet democratized crazy and also monetized it. Back in the analog age, you had to seek out conspiracy theories. Now they’re pumped into your feed by Facebook’s engagement algorithm because rage and fear are profitable. Conspiracies became content and worse, career paths. Grifters realized they could make real money off your uncle’s paranoia.

The right also weaponized conspiracy. We went from wondering if the CIA was hiding aliens to wondering if the Clintons were drinking baby blood. This wasn’t random. The far-right figured out that conspiracy theories could undermine trust in institutions, turn people against science, and rile up an angry base. Enter QAnon, anti-vaxxers, climate denial, and a pile of corpses.

People also got lonelier, dumber, and more desperate. When capitalism gives you no future and every institution fails you, it’s no surprise people start reaching for “alternative truths.” Unfortunately, the ones being served up now are dumb, cruel, and designed to radicalize, not enlighten.

Conspiracies used to be about asking questions. Now they’re about refusing reality.

You can’t joke about the moon landing anymore without someone in the comments section trying to sell you ivermectin or ranting about drag queens. The vibe has shifted from goofy paranoia to militant stupidity.

So yeah. The fun is gone.

But maybe it doesn’t have to be.

Maybe it’s time we reclaim conspiracy culture–not to spread nonsense, but to fight absurdity with absurdity. Let’s bring back the tall tales, the surrealism, the while “what ifs” that made it feel like there was something strange and wondrous just under the surface of the everyday.

The world is already insane. Let’s make it weirder, not dumber.