The Empire Needs More Bodies…

… and the bodies are broken.

I don’t normally post more than one blog a day, but I read something today that I had to bring to light. In plain sight on the White House’s official website was this:

“Seventy-seven percent of young adults to not qualify for the military based in large part on their health scores.”.

Let that sink in. Nearly 4 out of 5 young Americans are unfit to serve in the very institution that props up the U.S. empire. The military-industrial complex, for all its propaganda and promises of patriotism, is running up against a brutal biological reality: the bodies it depends on are crumbling under the weight of the society it helped create.

Decades of underfunded healthcare, over-processed food, environmental neglect, poverty wages, and mental health crises have produced a generation the empire can’t use. And instead of asking why so many are unwell, the system sees it as a recruitment problem. They’re scrambling–relaxing enlistment standards, pouring money into ad campaigns, and pushing JROTC deeper into high schools–not to uplift youth, but to harvest what’s left of them for war.

Because let’s be clear: the military doesn’t need healthy citizens–it needs usable soldiers. And when the well runs dry, the machinery starts to panic. That 77% figure isn’t just a number. It’s a red flag. A system built on endless war is discovering its fuel supply is contaminated. The bodies it needs are either too broken to fight or too wise to enlist.

So the question isn’t “How do we get more kids into uniform?” It’s “Why is this system so desperate for cannon fodder in the first place?” And what kind of future are we building if the only path to healthcare, education, or stability still runs through a recruiter’s office?

The empire’s war machine is hungry, but its appetite exceeds its supply. That should terrify everyone.

Review of The Conquest of Bread

I just finished reading anarcho-communist Peter Kropotkin’s The Conquest of Bread, and it was like stepping out of the haze of despair and into a blueprint for a different world, a world that doesn’t just rage against capitalism but offers a vision for what should replace it. Kropotkin didn’t just theorize revolution, he laid out the bones of a society built on mutual aid, voluntary cooperation, and the abolition of property as power. For someone like me–driven by a mix of anti-capitalism, misanthropic fire, and a stubborn belief that another world has to be possible–this book hit hard.

Kropotkin’s critique of capitalism goes beyond the surface-level arguments I was used to. He attacked not just the exploitation of labor, but the entire premise that anyone should hoard the means of survival while others suffer. He makes a moral argument without falling into moralism. It’s pragmatic and humane all at once. What stood out to me most was his insistence that revolution must not merely destroy but create. Bread first. Housing next. Then libraries, education, beauty. He reminds us that revolution must be immediate and sustaining.

Before reading the book, I knew I was an anti-capitalist, but I didn’t yet know how to articulate much of a vision. I leaned toward libertarian socialism, distrusted hierarchy, and wanted action, not just analysis. Kropotkin didn’t just validate those instincts; he gave them clarity. He fused my longing for direct action with a plan that doesn’t rely on state power. He made me think bigger: not just about resisting capitalism, but building the scaffolding of its replacement in our daily lives.

The book also sharpened my skepticism of so-called progressive compromises. Kropotkin pulls no punches in calling out the failure of reformism and electoralism. He gave me permission to imagine what happens after the collapse; how to build networks, systems, and support structures that don’t mirror the oppressive systems we fight.

Reading the book didn’t convert me; it confirmed me. It hardened my resolve to fight for socialism in a way that isn’t just about changing who’s in charge but about ending the very idea of bosses altogether. It reminded me that the chaos I crave isn’t destruction for its own sake. It’s the fertile ground where something better can grow.

Mandatory Breeding Thesis

In the year 2084 birth was no longer a right; it was a privilege earned through argument. The Global Rebalancing Accord had made it law: before anyone could conceive a child, they had to defend the decision before a council of judges. A Procreation Thesis was required–minimum fifty pages, peer-reviewed, complete with ethical citations and projected environmental impact report.

They called it The Great Pause. The birth rate dopped so sharply that entire industries collapsed overnight: toy companies, children’s television, suburban housing developments. People had to ask themselves a question that had never been asked before, not seriously: Why bring another life into this world?

Julia had spent six months writing her thesis. It was called “Replenishing Wonder: A Case for Ethical Renewal Through Parenthood.” She cited studies on human empathy, argued that carefully planned upbringing could forge more compassionate generations. Her bibliography spanned philosophy, biology, environmental science, and obscure treatises on the metaphysics of suffering. She even included a footnote quoting Albert Camus: “Blessed are the hearts that can bend; they shall never be broken.”

Her defense was scheduled for a Tuesday afternoon in a pale marble building called the Bureau of Intent.

The judges–three gray-suited scholars and one AI adjudicator–read her thesis in silence. Occasionally, the AI blinked its cold blue eyes as it processed her arguments. Finally, they asked her to stand.

“Ms. Lewis,” said one of the human judges. “You argue persuasively for the ethical upbringing of a future generation. You demonstrate awareness of resource limitations, existential risks, and psychological burdens. However, you fail to address one critical point: what gives you the right to gamble with another being’s non-consensual existence?”

Julia’s mouth went dry. She’d prepared for this.

She quoted her thesis: “Because existence, while a risk, is a canvas. It is not the guarantee of suffering or joy but the possibility of either. To deny that possibility altogether is to deny hope.”

The AI processed her words for several long seconds, then it spoke in its chilling neutral voice: “Hope is not permission.”

Thousands failed every year. Those who passed were granted a Parenthood License, good for one child. If they wanted another, they had to write a new thesis, and it had to be better than the first.

Julia failed.

She walked out of the Bureau under a blackening sky. Couples clutched each other on the steps, some sobbing, some enraged, some simply silent. In the plaza, a massive bronze statue depicted and ancient figure: a faceless mother offering a tiny child up to the stars, as if pleading. At the base of the statue were engraved the words:

“To create life is to stand trial before the future.”

Julie went home to her small apartment. She poured herself a glass of wine and opened a new document.

Title:

“The Ethics of Refusing to Create: A Defense of Non-Parenthood in an Age of Crisis.”

She smiled for the first time all day. Maybe she hadn’t failed after all.

I got the idea for this post from one of my dear friends, Scarlett (not sure how she feels using her real name online.) Go check out her blog:
https://mammonelleblog.wordpress.com/

Watchmen: A Review

A dear friend of mine bought me Alan Moore’s Watchmen graphic novel for my birthday and I just finished it today. It took me no time at all. I was so engrossed throughout the entire novel that I had to know what happened next. I watched the movie many years ago, but I really didn’t remember anything of it besides the opening credits where one of the characters assassinates JFK. I’ve never been a big comic book reader, but I love graphic novels. I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned it before, but Neil Gaiman’s Sandman is one of my all-time favorites, but Watchmen may have topped it.

Watchmen isn’t just a deconstruction of superheroes–it’s a scalpel slicing into the bloated corpse of American exceptionalism, liberal idealism, and the myth of power as virtue. Set in an alternate 1985 America where Richard Nixon never left office and masked vigilantes once roamed the streets like violent boy scouts, Watchmen asks a simple but brutal question: What kind of person puts on a mask and calls it justice?

Spoiler: It’s not the noble-hearted. It’s the traumatized, the fascistic, the god-complex-ridden, and the deeply, deeply broken.

The story pivots on the murder of the character known as The Comedian, a government-sponsored sociopath whose death pulls his former teammates–each more morally compromised than the last–back into a decaying world teetering on nuclear annihilation. At the center is Dr. Manhattan, a glowing blue god who’s lost all connection to humanity, and Ozymandias, a genius whose plan to save the world requires mass murder and absolute control.

Watchmen teaches us that power doesn’t purify. It distorts. Good intentions, when weaponized at scale, become indistinguishable from tyranny. And that the systems we trust to protect us–governments, heroes, even truth–are often just better-dressed versions of the same old brutality.

If you’re looking for hope, Watchmen laughs in your face. However, if you’re looking for clarity about the lies we tell ourselves to keep the machine humming, it’s a masterpiece. In the end, the most radical idea Watchmen offers isn’t that the world needs saving, it’s that maybe it doesn’t deserve to be saved in the first place.

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.

A List of My Heroes and Influences

Albert Camus

Camus resonates with me because of his embrace of the absurd. The Myth of Sisyphus especially hit home for me–the idea of imagining Sisyphus happy reframed how I see struggle. Instead of falling into despair, Camus argues for rebellion against the meaningless of life but finding joy in the absurd. He grounds his philosophy in a deep concern for justice and dignity. His resistance to both authoritarianism and passive resignation speaks to my own drive to disrupt capitalism and push people toward action.

Bill Hicks

Hicks has a sharp political critique with dark humor and a deep disdain for bullshit. His attacks on consumerism, corporate control, and political hypocrisy align with my own frustrations with capitalism and the absurdity of American politics Hicks didn’t just argue against the system; he ridiculed it in ways that exposed its ridiculousness. His jokes weren’t just shock humor, they were a brutal deconstruction of how capitalism co-opts everything, even rebellion. His no-holds-bar critique of America and the American system hits home for me.

Emil Cioran

Cioran strips existence down to its raw, unfiltered absurdity, much like how I see the world. His work speaks to my anti-natalism, misanthropy, and skepticism of grand ideological solutions. Cioran embraces despair with a poetic, almost darkly comedic flair I long to fight capitalism and push people into action, but I also find it exhausting. Cioran embodies that paradox. He was fully aware that everything is meaningless, yet he was still compelled to write, express, and dissect existence with a razor sharp wit.

Doug Stanhope

He blends brutal honesty, dark humor, and a deep contempt for societal norms. His raw no-bullshit take on life, politics, and human stupidity aligns with my own misanthropy, especially his disdain for blind patriotism, capitalism, and pro-natalism He doesn’t care about being a hero or inspiring people, he just calls out the bullshit for what it is.

Che Guevara

He wasn’t just a theorist, he was a man of action. He saw capitalism and imperialism as global enemies that needed to be dismantled everywhere. That kind of commitment resonates with my own view that capitalism just isn’t a local problem, but a systemic one that requires radical disruption. His image represents defiance, struggle, and an unrelenting pursuit of justice.

Malcolm X

Malcolm X wasn’t interested in playing nice with the system or begging for incremental change. He wanted radical transformation just like with my own frustration with passive leftism and half-measures. His ability to evolve is also great. He started as a staunch Black nationalist but later expanded his vision to a broader fight against oppression worldwide.

Arthur Schopenhauer

His view that the “will to live” traps people in a cycle of pointless striving aligns with my belief that bringing new life into the world is ethically indefensible. Unlike other philosophers who try to find meaning in suffering; Schopenhauer just lays it bare: existence is a cruel joke, and the best we can do is minimize suffering. His radical honesty about the bleakness of life, combined with his sharp wit and refusal to engage in false hope makes him a natural fit for my worldview.

Thomas Ligotti

His work embodies a philosophical commitment to cosmic horror and existential dread that mirrors my own views on the futility of existence. Ligotti sees the world as fundamentally indifferent, even hostile to human life. His vision of reality as an empty, uncaring place aligns with my own anti-natalist and absurdist leanings. His writing acknowledges the darkness I find both intellectually and existentially compellling.

Stephen King

This may comes as a shock to you, but Stephen King is a hero of mine because he’s the one who got me to love reading. I started with his books then branched out into others on government, philosophy, other people’s beliefs, etc. His deep cynicism about small-town America and institutions speak to my own skepticism toward power and the status quo. And honestly? He’s just fun to read. His mix of horror, dark humor, and no-nonsense storytelling makes him one of the few mainstream writers who doesn’t feel watered-down, which is something I respect.

Noam Chomsky

Noam Chomsky is a relentless critic of capitalism and U.S. imperialism and he backs up his arguments with deep historical and political analysis. He doesn’t just complain, he provides historical context, logical arguments, and a roadmap for action. His work exposes how power operates from corporate media manipulation to government-backed atrocities. His views align with my own desire to challenge capitalism and push for real change.

Peter Kropotkin

Peter Kropotkin showed me that cooperation — not competition — is what can keep society alive, and that real power comes from the bottom up, not the top down. He helped me unlearn the propaganda of capitalism and see that solidarity is not naive — it’s revolutionary.

Top 5 Favorite Books

I’ve always told people I have a top five list of favorite books. I thought I’d post them here and why I love each of them.

The Stranger by Albert Camus

It’s the perfect mix of existentialism, absurdism, and detachment, which are three things that resonate with me. Mersault’s indifference and refusal to play along with society’s expectations, and his ultimate acceptance of the absurdity of life align with my own views.

The Myth of Sisyphus by Albert Camus

This book gave me a framework to make peace with the absurd. Instead of drowning in nihilism or clinging to false meaning, Camus handed me a third option: defiance. I don’t have to pretend life has inherent meaning, but I also don’t have to collapse under that realization. I can push the boulder up the hill, knowing it’s pointless, and still find joy in the act.

Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace

It’s a chaotic, sprawling, brilliant mess, just like the world it critiques. It takes on capitalism, addiction, entertainment, and the crushing weight of modern existence, all with a mix of absurd humor and gut-wrenching sincerity.

At it’s core, it’s about resistance. Against addiction, against passive entertainment, against the numbness that capitalism and media try to impose.

Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy

Pure, unfiltered chaos — violence, fate, and the raw, indifferent brutality of the universe laid bare. It doesn’t try to comfort you; it forces you to stare into the abyss and see it staring back. It doesn’t just tell a story. It drags you through hell and leaves you to make sense of it yourself.

The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck

One of the most powerful indictments of capitalism and injustice ever written, and it does so with raw emotion and unflinching truth. It isn’t just about suffering; it’s about resistance, solidarity, and the idea that even in the face of crushing exploitation, people can come together and fight back.

Steinbeck’s anger at the system is palpable, but he doesn’t preach; he shows. He makes you feel the desperation, the hunger, the betrayal by a system designed to grind people down, but at the same time there’s that threat of quiet, unwavering defiance.

Revisiting Blood Meridian

I’m currently re-reading Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy, which is one of my top five favorite books of all time. It’s a brutal, hypnotic, and unrelentingly bleak book. McCarthy takes the myth of the American West and rips it apart, exposing it as a landscape of pure, amoral violence. He makes the violence seem surreal and inevitable.

The character of Judge Holden in particular is one of the most haunting literary figures. He’s part philosopher, part warlord, part devil. He embodies a vision of history and human nature that is completely devoid of redemption.

The book doesn’t offer easy conclusions of moral lessons; it just drags you through an endless nightmare and dares you to find meaning in it.

It’s one of those books that leaves you stunned when you finish it. Either you’ll be in awe of it, or you’ll never want to touch it again. Maybe both.

Blood Meridian reshapes how you see literature and maybe even history itself. It’s not just a Western, it’s a cosmic horror novel disguised as a Western. The sheer indifference of the universe in it is chilling, and Judge Holden is the embodiment of that.

Blood Meridian doesn’t just flirt with nihilism, it drags you into the abyss and makes you sit with it. There’s no redemption, no justice, no meaning beyond the endless cycle of violence. Even the protagonist, who seems like he might have a shred of humanity, is ultimately powerless against the chaos of the world. And Judge Holden? He’s basically an immortal force of destruction, dancing through history, laughing at anyone who thinks there’s order or morality. It’s the kind of book that leaves a scar.

There are some lessons in it though:

Violence is inherent to civilization.

McCarthy shows that violence isn’t just a byproduct of civilization but a fundamental part of it. The Glanton Gang’s violence is just business as usual in the American frontier. Human history is driven by war, conquest, and destruction, and making any romanticized view of the past naive.

Manifest Destiny was a Bloodbath.

The novel dismantles the myth of Manifest Destiny as a heroic expansion. The Glanton Gang which were hired to hunt Apaches turns into a lawless death squad, killing indiscriminately for profit. The Westward Expansion wasn’t just about pioneering and opportunity–it was also about genocide, greed, and chaos.

War is God.

Judge Holden represents a kind of cosmic nihilism. He believes that war is the only true human activity, the ultimate law of existence. If he’s right, then morality is just an illusion, and history is nothing but and endless cycle of domination and slaughter.

Fate vs Free Will.

The protagonist seems to have moments where he could choose a different path, but does he really have free will? The Judge suggests that all men are bound to the game of war, whether they admit it or not. The novel leaves open the question of whether the protagonist’s attempts at redemption matter or if he was doomed from the start.

At its core, Blood Meridian is a rejection of comfortable narratives about human nature, history, and morality. It doesn’t tell you what to think; it forces you to look into the abyss and decide for yourself what it means.

The Ashwood Grill

No one noticed when The Ashwood Grill burned down.

It happened on a Tuesday night long after the dinner rush, when the last of the barflies had staggered home and the kitchen staff had staggered home and the kitchen staff had scrubbing the grease from the fryer. A faulty wire in the walk-in fridge sparked, caught onto a stack of dry storage, and within minutes the whole place was up in flames. The fire department arrived too late to save anything but a few charred beams.

And yet, the next day, The Ashwood Grill was open again.

Same red vinyl booths, same flickering neon sign, same smell of burnt coffee and stale fryer oil clinging to the air. The menu still had the Tuesday night meatloaf special, still served with a side of lumpy mashed potatoes. But no one noticed.

Regulars wandered in, taking their usual seats without a second glance. The waitress, Barb, refilled their coffee cups with the same practiced indifferent. The cook, Gus, clanged around in the back, flipping burgers on a grill that should have been a heap of melted steel.

Across the street, Joe — the owner of a rival diner — watched with a cigarette handing from his lips. He’d seen the fire. He’d watched the flames lick the night sky, seen the fire trucks roll in, heard the building collapse. Yet there it was, standing just as it always had.

He crossed the street, pushed open the door. The bell jingled. The air smelled of burnt toast and fryer grease.

Barbara looked up, “Morning, Joe. The usual?”

Joe hesitated. “You burned down.”

Barbara blinked and him, unbothered. “Did we?”

“I saw it. I saw the fire.”

She shrugged, pouring his coffee. “Well, you must have been mistaken. We’ve been here the whole time.”

Joe sat and stared at the menu, his hands clammy. The letters seemed off. Fuzzy. They shifted when he tried to focus. The food came. The burger looked normal enough, but when he bit in, the taste was wrong. Not bad … just empty. Like a memory of a burger rather than the real thing.

He looked around. The customers chewed in silence, their faces strangely vacant. The jukebox played a song that didn’t quite exist, the melody twisting just out of reach.

Joe pushed back from the table, his chair scraping against the linoleum. “I gotta go.”

Barb smiled, “See you tomorrow, Joe.”

He left, the door jingling behind him.

No one noticed when The Ashwood Grill burned down.

And no one noticed when it came back.