The Transactional Tragedy of Terrance Blip

Terrance Blip was a man of modest ambitions: toast with the perfect butter-to-crisp ratio, socks without holes, and a bank account that didn’t judge him every time he opened his finance app. He lived alone in a studio apartment sandwiched between a psychic who only predicted Tuesdays and a taxidermist who specialized in emotionally distressed rodents.

One evening, while trying to return a cursed air fryer he had impulse-bought during a depressive episode, Terrance tripped over a knockoff lava lamp at a garage sale. It shattered with a melodramatic poof and out came a genie wearing aviators, a Hawaiian shirt, and the resigned aura of someone who’d been summoned during Love Island reruns.

“Congratulations,” said the genie, sipping a LaCroix. “You get one wish. Not three. That’s a myth. Union rules.”

Terrance blinked. “One? That’s not very—”

“Choose wisely or stupidly,” the genie interrupted. “I grant both with equal enthusiasm.”

Terrance, who had been recently charged $4.99 to cancel a free trial, didn’t hesitate.

“I wish that every cent I’ve ever spent in my entire life suddenly reappears in my bank account.”

The genie raised a suspicious eyebrow, which somehow hovered three inches off his face. “You sure? No ‘make me happy’ or ‘stop climate change’ or ‘bring back dinosaurs but they’re chill this time’?”

“Nope. I want my money back. Every dollar. From diapers to drinks. Give it all to Future Me.”

The genie snapped his fingers with a bored sigh. “Done. Good luck, champ.”

At first, it was glorious. Terrance’s phone dinged. His bank app went from $3.87 to $1,042,335.72.

He screamed. He danced. He Venmoed a random stranger $12 just because he could. He ordered eight pizzas, six of which he threw out because they “looked judgmental.”

But by day three, things took a turn. Terrance received a letter from the IRS, handwritten in crayon and lightly singed. It simply read: “WHERE DID THIS MONEY COME FROM, TERRY?”

He shrugged it off—what could they do? He had a genie-backed balance.

But then his body started reacting strangely. He gained weight from meals he hadn’t eaten in years. He suffered recurring stomachaches from a Taco Bell binge in 2012. He began waking up with hangovers from drinks he hadn’t consumed since college, including the infamous Flaming Banshee Night.

By week two, he was pelted by karmic echoes of every regrettable purchase he’d ever made. An army of chia pets stormed his living room. The haunted Beanie Baby he bought in ’98 hissed “capitalist pig” in Latin. A 6-foot stack of receipts materialized and cornered him in the shower, demanding he relive each transaction line by line.

Even worse, people from his past began showing up. A barista from 2007 wanted her tip back. A woman he’d ghosted after paying for dinner appeared, holding a menu and muttering, “You owe me appetizers and closure.”

His bank account remained fat, but Terrance was broke in every other sense—emotionally, spiritually, gastrointestinally.

Desperate, he sought out the genie again, only to find him running a kombucha stand in a strip mall.

“You didn’t read the fine print,” the genie said, sipping his own brand called “Soul Rot.” “You got all the money back. But you also got the consequences. Consumption is a ritual. You broke the cycle.”

“Fix it,” Terrance begged. “I’ll wish for anything. Just make it stop.”

“Nope,” said the genie, smiling serenely. “Only one wish per customer. Union rules.”

And with that, the genie vanished in a puff of oat milk vapor.

Terrance now lives under a mountain of refunded guilt, knee-deep in cursed yoga mats and artisanal regret. His bank account remains full, but he spends nothing—terrified that each swipe might unleash another receipt demon or childhood Happy Meal toy with unresolved trauma.

He’s learned a powerful lesson: Sometimes, the cost of getting your money back… is everything you paid to forget.

Why I Broke Away from Nietzsche

Like a lot of people, I discovered Friedrich Nietzsche in high school. Call it teen angst or whatever you will, but he felt dangerous, electric, liberating. While everyone else was parroting morality or chasing grades, Nietzsche was telling me to reject the herd, smash idols, and carve my own path. It felt like rebellion with a brain.

However, over time I outgrew him. Not because I stopped caring about meaning or individuality, but because I realized what kind of individualism he was selling, and who else was selling it.

Nietzsche championed the “Ubermensch,” the one who rises about the herd to create new values. Ayn Rand gave us John Galt, the genius industrialist who shrugs off society to build his perfect world. It hit me one day that these two weren’t as far apart as I once thought. Both glorify the exceptional individual. Both sneer at the masses. Both turn their back on solidarity.

What started as an inspiration to think freely began to feel like an excuse to disengage. Nietzsche was attacking morality from above. Rand was doing it from the boardroom. Either way, it ended with contempt for the people I now wanted to fight alongside.

I’m sure my readers know by now, but what really broke the spell was Camus. The Myth of Sisyphus didn’t offer me transcendence (or male and femalescendence for all you transphobes out there.) It didn’t demand I become a god. It simply asked me to imagine Sisyphus happy. That small act of rebellion — accepting the absurd and refusing to despair — hit harder than a thousand pages of will to power.

I realized I didn’t want to overcome the herd. I wanted to organize it. I didn’t want to create values in a vacuum. I wanted to challenge the systems that crush people every day. Nietzsche gave me the tools to reject inherited meaning, but he had nothing to offer once the dust settled.

Nietzsche lives in the realm of aesthetics: life as art, suffering as transformation, truth as personal creation. But when you’re watching the wealthy elite hoard resources, cops brutalize communities, and working people drown in debt, aesthetics isn’t enough. You need ethics. You need justice. You need solidarity.

Nietzsche taught me to question everything, and in turn, I had to question him too.

I didn’t reject Nietzsche because he was wrong about everything (did that with Rand.) I rejected him because he wasn’t enough. He lit the fire. Camus gave it direction. Socialism gave it purpose.

If Nietzsche taught me to become who I am, then breaking with him was part of that becoming. And maybe that’s the most Nietzschean move of all.

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.

America Loses Every War it Declares…

… and that’s not an accident.

There’s a pattern no one seems to want to talk about: every time America declares a “”war” on something, it loses. Spectacularly. Repeatedly. Almost like it’s designed to fail–or at least never meat to succeed.

Let’s take a stroll down our hall of shame:

The War on Drugs

Launched in the 1970s and ramped up in the 80s, this war didn’t end drug use. It militarized police, packed prisons, and devastated communities (especially Black and brown ones). Meanwhile, Big Pharma ran its own cartel out in the open with opioids. The result? A multi-decade failure that somehow made drugs more common. But hey, prison stocks are doing great.

The War on Poverty

LBJ declared this one in the 60s. Ambitious? Sure. But instead of ending poverty, we got decades of underfunded programs sabotaged by both parties. Fast forward to now: wages are stagnant, homelessness is rising, and billionaires are joyriding to space. Poverty didn’t lose. It adapted, got a tech job, and learned to live in a car.

The War on Terror

We “won” this one by destabilizing the Middle East, fueling global extremism, and wasting trillions of dollars. Afghanistan? A 20-year disaster with a Taliban victory lap at the end. Iraq? Invaded based on lies. Terrorism didn’t disappear, it diversified and learned to livestream.

The War on Crime

What this really turned into was a war on poor people, especially people of color. Instead of addressing root causes–like inequality, housing, education–we militarized police, filled private prisons, and normalized, a surveillance state. Crime didn’t go away, it just got rebranded. And the police budget? It’s still the only socialist program America will never cut.

Losing is the business model. These “wars” aren’t meant to be won. They’re meant to be permanent. They justify bloated budgets, feed private industries, and generate endless political theatre. You can’t win a war if winning means ending the gift.

It’s not a bug, it’s the point.

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.