The Absurd Resistance: A Manifesto for the Broken, the Burning, and the Brave

We begin with a scream, not a sermon.

This world is absurd. A meat grinder dressed up in hashtags and mortgages. The powerful drink from golden chalices forged from your stolen hours. And yet, they smile. They tell you to smile.

We won’t.

We are the inheritors of Camus’ defiance, Cioran’s despair, and Schopenhauer’s doom. We have read the contract called “life” and chosen to laugh, weep, or set it on fire depending on the day.

We believe:

In truth so ugly it loops back into beauty.

In jokes that kill fascism and punch gods in the mouth.

In community, not coercion.

In mutual aid over mass delusion.

In death being certain, but dignity optional.

We reject:

The capitalist cult of progress.

The myth of meritocracy.

The domestication of rebellion.

The narcotic of false hope.

The lie that life is a gift when it’s often just a receipt.

Like Bill Hicks, we know it’s just a ride, but we’re the type to grab the wheel and steer it into a bank.

Like Doug Stanhope, we toast to the end while telling the truth nobody paid to hear.

Like Che Guevara, we are willing to fight. Not because we believe victory is guaranteed, but because surrender is spiritual suicide.

Like Malcolm X, we reject peace without justice, and kindness without teeth.

Like Kropotkin, we believe in solidarity. Not because it’s idealistic, but because it’s the only antidote to the poison of power.

Like Chomsky, we speak plainly and punch upward.

Like Ligotti, we write horror because we live in it. And like Stephen King, we turn the grotesque into gospel.

There is no exit. There is only refusal. Refusal to comply. Refusal to pretend. Refusal to become the product.

We are absurd. We are aware. We are armed with wit, rage, and community.

We will not “build a better world.” We will undermine the one they’ve built. In the ruins, maybe something human can finally grow. So laugh. Fight. Write. Feed people. Burn things. And when they ask what the hell you think you’re doing, tell them:

“I’m just imagining Sisyphus happy … and loading the next rock into a trebuchet.”

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.

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.

Why Do Republicans Want More Babies but Hate Sex?

There’s a bill that’s been proposed by Republicans that bans pornography. Shocking, I know. They want more babies but less people having sex. Make it make sense. Now, I don’t watch porn anymore. I haven’t in two years. I didn’t have an addiction to it. I just wanted to see how long I could go without watching it. I think this ban is an infringement on freedom of expression though.

Republicans love to lecture us about birthrates. “We’re not having enough kids!” they cry, as if they solution is to just start raw-dogging for America. They panic over “declining family values,” warn about demographic collapse, and push policies to encourage more births. But there’s one little problem: they hate sex.

Not just certain kinds of sex–all of it. They fight against sex education, demonize contraception, and lose their minds over anything outside of straight, married, God-fearing intercourse. They’re not just anti-abortion. They’re anti-sex, anti-pleasure, and anti-autonomy.

So let’s ask the obvious:

If they want more babies, why are they so hostile toward the thing that makes babies?

Because it was never about babies.

It’s about control.

Sex, when divorced from shame and fear becomes power–especially for women, LGBTQ+ people, and anyone outside their rigid moral framework. If people can enjoy sex without “consequences,” the entire structure of conservative power starts to wobble. They lose the ability to use pregnancy as punishment. They lose the ability to gatekeep morality. They lose the leash.

So they push abstinence-only education, attack access to birth control, and slut-shame anyone who dares enjoy themselves, even if it’s masturbation when you’re by yourself, pulling your pud, and just having a good old time by your lonesome. All this while pretending it’s about “protecting life.”

Let’s be real right now:

They don’t want you to make babies. They want you to suffer the consequences.

Their nightmare may not be low birthrates. It may be a liberated population that can’t be guilt-tripped, manipulated, or forced into compliance. That’s why they push forced birth while demonizing the sex that leads to it. It’s not hypocrisy. It’s strategy.

And it’s working–unless we call it what it is and burn their moral scaffolding to the ground.

Mandatory Breeding for Billionaires

In a bold new initiative to save humanity from extinction, I propose a simple, elegant solution: every billionaire must be legally required to produce no fewer than fifty biological children. No surrogates. No cloning. Full participation required. If you’re rich enough to buy a planet, you’re rich enough to birth its next fifty caretakers … personally.

Why, you ask?

Because billionaires love growth. They love expansion. They believe the future is built on more: more markets, more people, more productivity. Elon Musk, noted tech daddy and meme necromancer, has warned us of the “population collapse crisis” while fathering a small village. So let’s make it official: if you think birthrates are too low then congratulations, you’ve just volunteered your body for the cause.

But here’s the anti-natalist twist:

We don’t actually want anyone to have any more kids. Especially not people who treat life like a startup–launch it, leave it, let the chaos scale. But if you’re going to promote infinite growth on a finite planet, if you insist the world needs more people to “fix” things, you should be the first to drown in diapers and existential dread.

Let the billionaires change 500,000 diapers, stay up for 3 million sleepless nights, and explain to fifty children why the ocean is on fire and their water tastes like lithium. Let them homeschool fifty screaming avatars of late capitalism and field their therapy bills for the next century. If life is so sacred, let them carry its burden to the absurd conclusion.

Because life isn’t a gift–it’s a gamble. And no one should be forced into existence for the sake of GDP.

Mandatory billionaire breeding is not about justice. It’s satire. It’s vengeance. It’s the logical endpoint of pro-natalist capitalism: turning humans into infinite labor inputs for someone else’s profit margin. We simply say: if you love humanity so much, you go first. You breed the next generation of doomed innovators. We’ll watch.

Anti-natalism doesn’t mean hating life. It means questioning the unthinking worship of it. It means asking whether existence is worth it, especially when it’s engineered by those least affected by its consequences. And sometimes, it means forcing a billionaire to push out fifty kids, just to see the smirk fall off their faces.

Congrats on the Tumor–You’re Fired!

Imagine waking up with chest pain, or getting hit by a drunk driver, or being diagnosed with cancer–and also still having to worry about whether your boss will still employ you next week so you can afford to stay alive.

Welcome to the great U S of A! Where your right to life is tied to your productivity.

We’ve normalized a system where healthcare is a perk, not a right. Like a company-branded tote bag or pizza in the breakroom. Need insulin to live? Better hope your employer hasn’t “restructured.” Broke your leg? You better not be unemployed–or you’ll be crawling to the E.R. and then into debt.

It’s cartoonishly dystopian when you think about it. We don’t tie firefighters to employment status. If your house is on fire, they don’t ask if you have a job before putting it out. But if your body is actually on fucking fire? Well, if you don’t have employer-sponsored insurance then best of fucking luck to you!

It’s also a massive scam. Tying healthcare to employment keeps people terrified of quitting, terrified of organizing, and terrified of speaking out. It’s wage-slavery dressed in HR-approved language. “We’re like a family” they’ll say. I’ve heard that one a few times in my life at work. Sure, a family that charges you $600 a month to maybe see a doctor if you’re lucky.

And don’t get me started on COBRA, the cruel joke of a system where you can keep your insurance after being laid off–by paying both your premium and the employer’s. As if anyone newly unemployed has a few extra grand lying around for monthly premiums. That’s not a bridge, it’s a toll road to bankruptcy.

Other countries keep healthcare as a basic human right. The USA treats it like a prize you can earn for being useful to capitalism.

Sick? Get a job. Too sick to work? Die quietly.

Let’s stop pretending this is normal. Let’s stop congratulating companies for offering healthcare, as if that makes them moral. The bare minimum shouldn’t feel like a gift.

Healthcare shouldn’t be a reward for surviving capitalism.

It should be a fucking right.

What Radicalized Me

I didn’t pop out of the womb swinging a red flag. I wasn’t raised by union organizers or taught to quote Marx before I could walk. Like a lot of Americans, I coasted on autopilot for a while. I figured the president—whoever they were—probably knew what they were doing. The system seemed fine, or at least functional. Corrupt, maybe, but stable.

Then came Trump.

That was the first crack in the illusion. Suddenly the office of the presidency wasn’t just some boring institution, it was a circus, a cult, a threat. It wasn’t just bad policy. It was kids in cages. Racist dog whistles cranked up to bullhorns. And half the country cheered. That’s when I realized the system wasn’t broken. It was functioning exactly as designed.

That’s when I started reading. Rand again, first. I loved her in high school—thought she was deep. Then I picked up Atlas Shrugged as an adult and felt like I’d been duped. It wasn’t philosophy. It was selfishness with a thesaurus. The heroes were sociopaths. The poor deserved it. The rich were gods. It clicked: capitalism doesn’t just tolerate cruelty. It requires it.

From there, I fell down the rabbit hole. Camus hit me like a freight train. The Myth of Sisyphus gave shape to something I’d felt but couldn’t name. This low, constant hum of absurdity. The rock rolls back down the hill, and we push it again. Not because it’ll change anything, but because we refuse to give up.

That absurdism became fuel. So did my misanthropy. Not in the “I hate everyone” kind of way, but in the “I don’t trust people to do the right thing unless they’re forced to” kind of way. I watched people defend billionaires like they were sports teams, as if Apartheid Clyde was going to show up and hand them a Tesla for their loyalty.

I started arguing online. Then organizing. Then donating. I joined the Democratic Socialists. I started lurking at meetings, listening more than talking. I wanted to shake things up, but not just with signs and chants. I wanted disruption. Chaos. Direct action. Guerilla organizing.

I kept reading. Kept pushing. Anti-natalism hit me hard—David Benatar, Cioran, all of it. The idea that no one consents to be born, and that bringing someone into this world is an inherently selfish act. In a dying planet, under a dying system, having kids felt like feeding bodies into the machine.

All of that coalesced into anarcho-communism. Because socialism wasn’t enough. The state isn’t neutral, it’s a tool of capital. Voting helps, but it’s a bandage on a severed limb. I believe in mutual aid, in decentralized power, in horizontal structures. I believe in burning down what doesn’t serve us and building something new from the ashes. Something where people matter more than profit. Where community matters more than hierarchy.

And yeah, I still own guns. Gifts, mostly. I don’t shoot much. But they’re there—”just in case” feels more relevant by the day.

What radicalized me? The cruelty. The absurdity. The lies we’re told about success, about work, about life itself. And the quiet hope that maybe, just maybe, we can break the cycle. So I meme. I write. I organize. I fight. Because if this is a pyramid scheme called life, I at least want to go down pissing off the billionaires at the top.

Right to Exist

In the year 2047, capitalism had finally achieved its ultimate form. Landlords no longer rented apartments, houses, or even beds. Those were luxuries. Now they owned the very act of existing.

It started innocently enough: a small tax on “public space usage” in overcrowded cities, then someone had the bright idea to monetize the most valuable real estate of all: being alive.

Basic Existence Plans

The government, now fully privatized under the United Corporations of America, partnered with major landlords to introduce Existence Permits. Every citizen was required to pay a Base Rent just to continue occupying space. There are different pricing models.

Basic Model: $999/month – The right to breathe, stand, and move in designated living zones.

Premium Model: $2499/ month – Sitting rights, access to indoor spaces, and limited privacy.

Elite Model: $9999/month – Full movement, private rooms, and the ability to own furniture.

Those who couldn’t even afford the Basic Model had two choices: join the Debt Labor Program (indetured servitude with a 200-year contract) or be sent to the Non-Existence Zone, which was a fenced-off wasteland where the unpaying masses wandered, waiting to starve.

Marcus Caldwell, a former software engineer, had recently been downgraded from “Basic” to “Pre-Expired” Status after missing two payments. A red timer hovered over his citizen ID, counting down the 48 hours until his legal existence would be revoked.

He tried everything: selling his furniture, begged on the Pay-to-Speak app, applied for a breathing subsidy. With ten minutes left, he made a final desperate call to his landlord, Mr. Hendrix, a man who owned over 50 million existence units across the country.

“Please,” Marcus begged. “I just need another week.”

Hendrix sighed. “Look, Mark, I like you, but if I let you slide, what message does that send to my other tenants? Existence isn’t free, my friend.”

“But I’ve lived here for years!”

“Exactly! And every year, your right to live gets more valuable. That’s how markets work.”

The timer hit zero. Marcus felt a strange sensation in his chest. His Existence Lease had been terminated. His biometric ID deactivated. The streetlights dimmed around him. Doors locked automatically. Card refused to recognize him. Even his digital wallet self-destructed, ensuring he could not longer participate in the economy.

Two armored Existence Enforcement Officers appeared, scanning his ID.

“Sir, you are currently occupying space without a valid permit. Please proceed to the Non-Existence Zone immediately.”

Marcus ran, but had nowhere to go. Everywhere had a fee. Sidewalks charged by the step. Air had a metered oxygen tax. His phone flashed its final message before shutting off permanently.

“Your free trial has expired.”

As Marcus disappeared into the wasteland, the landlords met in their executive towers to discuss the next innovation” charging people for memories. After all, why should anyone be allowed to keep experiences they haven’t fully paid for?

The future was bright … for those who could afford it.