Why Euphoria is Illegal

I was recently prescribed Briviact for my epilepsy. It’s a newer medication which means there’s no generic form so I won’t be able to get it refilled unless the tariffs are lifted. I got some samples from the doctor’s office though which is a good thing. I research my meds when I take them and I learned that this one is a controlled substance. I wondered why. It’s a seizure medication. It’s not like it’s fentanyl or meth or something that makes you hallucinate. It’s because it causes euphoria. In other words: it can make you feel good. And somehow, that’s against the law.

That tells you everything you need to know about how this system views pleasure.

Drug laws in the U.S. weren’t built on science. They were built on moral panic and social control. Cocaine was criminalized when Black workers used it. Opium was outlawed when Chinese immigrants used it. Marijuana became illegal when Mexican immigrants used it. Every time “protect the public” was the excuse, but the real goal was control: control of behavior, control of consciousness, control of who gets to feel good and how.

The modern drug war still follows that logic. Feeling good isn’t criminal if you buy it from the right people. Alcohol, caffeine, prescription meds, streaming services, endless entertainment are all perfectly legal ways to numb yourself while staying productive and docile. Those industries make billions helping people escape, just enough to keep functioning.

But if you find a way to feel good without permission — without profit flowing upward — suddenly it’s a “public health crisis.” Suddenly you’re “abusing” pleasure.

The DEA says some drugs must be tightly regulated because they “cause euphoria.” But really, that’s code for “they might remind you that there’s more to life than work, debt, and stress.” They might make you want more from existence than the treadmill of consumption.

So the state steps in to keep your happiness manageable, your relief rationed, your joy prescribed. Euphoria is a threat, but not to your body … to your obedience.

It’s not that feeling good is against the law. It’s that feeling good outside of capitalism’s rules is.

Barking Mad: The Philosophy of Wilfred

The FX show “Wilfred” is one of my all-time favorite shows. I never saw the original Australian version, but the American one struck a chord with me. I’ve watched and re-watched it several times. It’s philosophical. It’s stoner comedy. It’s dark. It’s all the things I love.

On the surface “Wilfred” is a stoner comedy where Ryan (played by Elijah Wood), is a clinically depressed ex-lawyer who tried to kill himself, but instead found himself talking to his neighbor’s dog, who appears to him as a full-grown man in a dog costume. Hijinks ensue. But beneath the bong smoke and profanity lies something far more profound: a surreal meditation of identity, sanity, and the human condition.

At its core, “Wilfred” is about the search for meaning in a meaningless world. Ryan’s life is sterile, scripted, and empty. He’s alienated from his family, his former profession, and himself. Enter Wilfred: a creature who embodies chaos, instinct, and the id run wild. He shits in Ryan’s neighbor’s boots, humps teddy bears, and goads Ryan into ever-more reckless behavior. But Wilfred is also, somehow, Ryan’s guide — his Virgil through a very shaggy Inferno.

The question that hovers over every episode: Is Wilfred real? Is Ryan insane? Does it matter?

This is classic absurdism. Think Camus’ The Myth of Sisyphus: the recognition that life has no inherent meaning doesn’t lead to despair — it leads to freedom. Wilfred doesn’t hand Ryan answers. He hands him paradoxes, jokes, and humiliations. But in doing so, he forces Ryan to confront the absurdity of his own life and to choose whether or not to keep pushing the boulder.

Philosophically, Wilfred could be read as Ryan’s shadow self — Carl Jung’s idea of the hidden, repressed parts of the psyche. Wilfred says the things Ryan won’t say. He acts on the desires Ryan suppresses. He’s at once friend, enemy, conscience, and saboteur. It’s like Fight Club if Tyler Durden wore a dog suit and loved Scooby Snacks.

Freud would have a field day here. Wilfred is all id — sex, aggression, pleasure, impulse. Ryan, meanwhile, is ego — repressed, neurotic, obsessed with doing “the right thing.” Their interactions often mirror Freud’s model of the mind in conflict. And the battleground? Reality itself.

But what makes the show so intriguing is that Wilfred isn’t just destructive. He’s also deeply wise in a perverse way. He teaches Ryan how to feel, how to trust, and ultimately how to live, not by giving him control — but by forcing him to let go of it. Just as Tyler Durden said to the Narrator in Fight Club: “Just let go!”

In a society that values productivity over introspection, “Wilfred” dares to ask: what if your mental breakdown is the most honest moment of your life? What if the voice in your head isn’t something to silence, but something to listen to, especially when it’s telling dick jokes?

Wilfred represents the part of us that refuses to play along with the farce of normality. He sniffs out the hypocrisy in Ryan’s family, the cowardice in his friends, and the rot at the heart of every polite interaction. He is, in many ways, Ryan’s subconscious revolt against a life lived on autopilot.

It’s no accident that Ryan meets Wilfred at his lowest point. He’s suicidal not because he wants to die, but because he doesn’t know how to live. Wilfred doesn’t save Ryan with self-help cliches or pharmaceuticals, he drags him through absurdity until Ryan sees the game for what it is. Not a test to be passed, but a joke to be told well.

In the final season, the show doubles down on ambiguity. Wilfred might be a hallucination. Or a trickster god. Or some ancient being teaching Ryan spiritual lessons in the only way Ryan will accept. Or he might just be a dog and Ryan is insane.

The brilliance of “Wilfred” is that it never tells you the answer. Like any good philosophical riddle, it trusts the question to do the work. It doesn’t resolve — it disturbs. It doesn’t comfort — it challenges.

And maybe that’s what makes it feel true.

In a world screaming for certainty, “Wilfred” howls for ambiguity. It’s a show that understands mental illness not as a glitch to be fixed, but as a symptom of something deeper: a culture that has lost touch with play, instinct, and wonder.

So if you ever find yourself talking to a man in a dog suit, don’t panic. Sit down. Light a joint. Listen. He may not be real. But he might just be right.

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.

What “The Wire” Got Right About Drug Policy

If you’ve watched The Wire, you probably remember the “Hamsterdam” storyline in season three. It’s one of the most controversial, radical experiments in the show, and maybe in TV history. For those who haven’t seen it: a police major named Bunny Colvin, frustrated by the utter futility of the drug war, creates unofficial “free zones” where drug dealers can operate without interference. In return, they have to move their business out of residential neighborhoods. He doesn’t legalize drugs, he just stops enforcing the laws in those pockets.

It’s a mess. It’s hopeful. It’s heartbreaking. And it’s probably the most honest take on U.S. drug policy ever aired. The whole thing gets shut down, of course. Because it worked. Hamsterdam reduced violent crime. It made it easier to get help to addicts. It gave communities some relief. But it also violated every sacred cow in American law enforcement. You can’t admit the war on drugs is unwinnable. You can’t show mercy. And you sure as hell can’t make policy based on reality instead of moral panic. That’s the part that stuck with me—because Hamsterdam worked. Not perfectly. But it worked better than what we’ve been doing for fifty years.

Our drug laws have always been more about control than safety. More about punishment than healing. We criminalize addiction, lock up the poor, and turn neighborhoods into war zones—all while pretending we’re “getting tough” on crime.

Meanwhile, drug use continues, overdose deaths skyrocket, and entire communities are hollowed out by mass incarceration. Hamsterdam wasn’t a utopia. It had problems. But it was rooted in a radical idea: What if we treated drug users as people instead of criminals?

Imagine if we took all the money we pour into SWAT raids, private prisons, and DEA sting operations—and used it for housing, harm reduction, mental health care, and treatment on demand. Imagine if we decriminalized drugs entirely, stopped arresting people for possession, and focused on actually helping people instead of ruining their lives.

Portugal did it. Overdose deaths dropped. HIV rates dropped. People got healthier—and the sky didn’t fall. The U.S.? We double down on failure because we’re addicted to punishment. Because it feels good to punish.

That’s why Hamsterdam couldn’t survive. It was too honest. We need more honesty. We need more Bunny Colvins willing to break the rules because the rules are broken. And we need drug policy based on compassion, not cruelty. Because right now, the real crime isn’t using drugs, it’s pretending our system works when we know damn well it doesn’t.

It’s a Sorry World

I took the title of this blog from a song by a comedian I always liked: Tim Wilson. The opening lyrics are as follows:

You can go to war when you’re 18,

But you can’t buy a beer.

You can launch missiles from a submarine,

But you can’t buy a pistol here.

You can breathe chemical weapon fumes,

But they don’t want you to smoke.

So if you’re shooting up a bar in Baghdad,

Don’t order a rum and Coke.

I spent the new year with some near and dear friends as I do every year. We talked about things normal people talk about: funny shit from the past that we did, religion, how much everyone and everything sucks, politics, etc. I was not aware that a federal law had been passed that bans the sale of tobacco products to anyone under the age of 21. Since when did the Republicans start meddling in state affairs? I thought they were the party completely and totally against that. I guess it just goes to show you that Carlin was right. This country was bought and paid for a long time ago by people with deep pockets. None of them give a shit about you or your rights. They believe in taking your money and telling you what to do.

I’m a firm believer in being able to do as one wishes as long as you’re not hurting another human being. If you want to smoke, drink, do drugs then that’s all fine and good with me as long as you’re not inconveniencing someone else or causing them any physical harm. I’m sure you’re harming those around you who care about you, but that’s a post for another day (another day where I’m probably not going to feel like writing.)

You now have to sign up for the draft at 18, you can buy a gun at 18, you can go and fight in a war you don’t believe in, kill others in different countries, and bomb the shit out of said countries all you want … just don’t you go thinking you can come back home after doing all of that and enjoying a smooth cigarette or a delicious beer. You can kill people by the dozens, but you’re way too irresponsible and immature to handle your alcohol and tobacco.

Welcome to America. You are free to do as they tell you.

What’s My Drug of Choice? Well, What Have You Got?

I remember reading a blog some time ago on another site by some old fuck that lives in her own little world and refuses to accept that the world changes, and she refuses to accept that sometimes people can’t help their situations. One particular blog of hers was about drug addiction, which was something she clearly knew nothing about. “People who use drugs have no one to blame but themselves. They had the choice to use drugs or not to use drugs and they chose to do it so they shouldn’t be helped.”

I was talking to my brother-in-law about this. We used the example of a party one time. No one goes to a party and just blurts out, “So who’s got heroin in this motherfucker?” A lot of the time heroin stems from an addiction to opiates, which are prescribed by doctors to manage pain. We as humans will find any way possible to eliminate the pain in our lives, whether it’s physical or emotional.

I started drinking and using pills when I was 19 or so. I’ve used coke, still smoke weed, drink occasionally (but have recently discovered that I can’t drink alone anymore. I won’t drink alone anymore.) Also, as I mentioned in my previous blog, I tripped on acid for the first time this past weekend. We’re all looking for ways to avoid, ignore, or eliminate pain. I don’t know too many people who become addicts because they’re happy. No one drinks alone because they’re entertaining happy thoughts. Those of us who use are trying to mask, hide, and again, eliminate pain. We’ll go to any lengths to do it.

I know what depression is like. I’ve struggled with it since my teens. It’s not something that’s easy to live with and it’s not something I’d wish on another person. Then again, maybe I would just so someone else could walk a day in my shoes to know what the pain is like. I commented on a friend of mine’s blog about depression, saying:

Sadness and depression are two very different things. I have felt sat before and I struggle with depression. Sadness is the loss of a job, the feeling you have after a fight with your partner, failing that test you studied so hard for.

Depression is wanting out. There is nothing to life and you go along every day and wonder why you still bother in the first place. It’s feeling that nothing is ever going to get better and dreading the days ahead. It’s sleeping the day away because you can’t bring yourself to face it. It’s just not wanting to play anymore as David Foster Wallace said in Infinite Jest. Nothing brings you joy but the nothingness of being unconscious somehow whether it’s from sleeping or being passed out from the night before.

It’s why we choose things that are bad for us to handle the pain. We drink, we do drugs, we try to numb the pain anyway we can because it’s physical and mental. You don’t feel anything when you’re on drugs. That’s the feeling we want … the feeling of not feeling at all.

It’s why so many who suffer from depression commit suicide. They want an out. They’re done with playing and have realized this life has nothing to give them.

I struggle every day with the feeling of not wanting to feel. I lie in bed and sleep for hours on end because I just don’t want to know what the day holds for me and I don’t care. I just want to be out of it. I want to be put into a coma so I won’t have to be dead, but I won’t have to deal with what’s going on in my mind anymore, either.

Knowing this, how could you say you don’t understand why people turn to drugs? It’s easier, faster, and sometimes cheaper than therapy.

You can’t understand a user’s mind
But try, with your books and degrees
If you let yourself go and opened your mind
I’ll bet you’d be doing like me and it isn’t so bad

Tripping on a Hole in a Paper Heart

I tripped on acid for the very first time in my life over the weekend. I’d always wanted to try psychedelics, but never knew anyone who had any. I wanted to start small with mushrooms or something along those lines, but when someone I knew said, “Hey. I’ve got some acid. Wanna drop some with me?” My immediate response was “Hell yeah!”

We each took the sugar cubes and I knew it’d take a while to kick in so we just kind of sat outside in the dark. I was taking in the surroundings, which I always do when I’m outside anyway. I live in a very secluded area. There are a lot of trees, forests, pastures, etc. The first thing I started to notice were the Christmas lights that were strung all along the neighbor’s fence to her property. They started to move up and down much like you would imagine a rollercoaster in motion. They started to form shapes and patterns the likes of which I’d never seen.

The darkness from before lifted and all I could see was colorful light. Bright lights that illuminated the grass, the trees, the sky. It was the sky splitting open and exposing its true self, very welcoming. I felt a wave of euphoria wash over me as I stared at my surroundings and took everything in. It was like someone had taken a paint brush and painted the world over, the colors spiraling out and back in and then out again.

I felt every bubble of the soda I was drinking going through my entire body, passing along each and every taste bud. I had to let the soda sit in my mouth for a moment because the feeling and taste were unlike anything I’d ever tried before. I stared into nature and allowed myself to experience the waves of energy that have always been there, but I could never perceive before. There is something all around us at all times that it can be difficult to perceive, but on acid, the other realms and dimensions that we exist in become easier to feel. The next day I felt a little drained emotionally, but I also felt cleansed at the same time.

That’s all I can say about my first trip. There was so much more to it, but I don’t know how I’d even begin to put it into words. I should have blogged at the exact moment I was tripping, but I don’t know if it would have made sense then either. If you’re thinking about trying it for the first time, do your research. I researched acid for a long time as I tossed the idea around in my head concerning whether or not I wanted to try it. I’m glad I did, and I’d happily do it again.

LSD score: 10 out of 10. Would try again.

Drinking, Drugs, and Skydiving

I’ve mentioned that my grandmother has Alzheimer’s. I’ve been helping my mom take care of her for the past five years. On Monday she had a stroke and was unable to communicate with my cousin or myself. She had fallen off her bed and was unable to get back up. We could tell she was in pain, but we didn’t want to move her because we didn’t want to further damage anything she may have broken. We sat there while I was on the phone with 9-1-1, waiting for the paramedics to arrive. None of us knew what to do. My cousin was a mess. She could do nothing but cry. I’ve never been good at comforting others. I can tell jokes and make smart ass remarks all day to make you laugh, but I’m not a hugger and never have been. The only thing I knew to do was to give my cousin one of my anti-anxiety meds to calm her down.

My grandmother is still in the hospital. It was determined she did indeed have a stroke and she has bleeding on the brain. We’ve been told it’s only a matter of time and that we should be thinking about hospice care for her at this point. I’ve made my peace with it. I think it will be a relief to myself as well as my mom. I don’t know what triggered it, but I had a breakdown tonight, just thinking that “So that’s what life has in store for me if I live that long?” I want know part of it. I was looking up states where it’s legal for assisted suicide and I believe that’s what I want to do. I’ll sign whatever papers I need to in order for someone somewhere to take me out of this world if I can’t do it on my own.

I don’t want to be trapped inside my own body that’s no longer working. I don’t want to be trapped inside my own mind half the time already. I mentally shut down tonight and could do nothing but let the tears flow. I guess I’m only human after all and I hate it. None of us are getting any younger. I try to ignore it and mask whatever pain I feel because of it with whatever drugs I have readily available, whether they’ve been prescribed to me or I’ve bought them from a friend or a friend of a friend.

I don’t know how normal people deal with life sucking so much, but I’ve found my way and it’s through substances; substances and sleep. I just want to drift off into darkness until the next day arrives and do it all over again. Is that what we all do? Does everyone just find ways of distracting themselves from the pain of reality and daily life? Do we all take whatever drug is thrown our way whether it’s pills, alcohol, sex, sleep, television, etc.? I even wonder about people who jump from airplanes and parachute and bungee jump. Are they just looking for some type of escape from the emptiness that consumes their lives?

How can we judge people who take drugs or drink when we’re all just looking for our own way to get by in life?