I’m Sick of Living in a Country With a Price Tag on Survival

There’s something deeply wrong with a society that puts a dollar sign on everything: air, water, healthcare, housing, even hope.

In America, you don’t get to live, you get to rent existence. And the rent keeps going up.

Need to drink water? Better hope your tap isn’t poisoned, privatized, or shut off because you’re behind on the bill. Need to see a doctor? Hope you can navigate the insurance labyrinth, dodge bankruptcy, and survive long enough to get an appointment three months from now.

This isn’t a functioning society. It’s a hostile marketplace cosplaying as civilization.

We slap “In God We Trust” on the currency, but worship profit above all. Billionaires hoard resources like dragons while kids ration insulin. Corporations dump chemicals into rivers while charging us for clean water. Politicians talk about “personal responsibility” while handing corporate welfare to their donors.

Everything is for sale … except dignity.

This system wasn’t built to help us. It was built to extract from us. Your labor, your time, your energy, your life. All monetized. The only thing “essential” in this economy is your ability to generate profit for someone else.

And when you stop being profitable? You’re disposable. That’s the cold logic of capitalism. It doesn’t care if you suffer. It needs you to.

But here’s the thing: people are waking up. The cracks are visible. The rage is growing. The question now isn’t “Is this sustainable?”, it’s “What the hell are we going to do about it?”

We can’t shop our way out of this. We can’t vote our way out of it alone. This is going to take organizing. Disruption. Solidarity. Mutual aid. Refusing to play their game by their rules.

Because survival should not be for sale.

And I, for one, am done pretending this is normal.

Overthinking, Pandora’s Box, and the Mercy We Don’t Deserve

By someone who’s tired of dodging landmines in family group chats.

I posted a photo on Snapchat the other day—Bertrand Russell’s The History of Western Philosophy. I didn’t think much of it. Just one of those small, nerdy flexes you throw into the void. But then my aunt replied:

“I didn’t know there was such a thing, but I guess everything has some sort of philosophy.”

Okay, fair. Not everyone grew up reading Plato or spiraling into existential dread during sophomore year. I responded:

“Western civilization’s been overthinking everything for like 2,500 years. They had to write it down eventually. Even things like math and science have deep philosophical roots.”

Her response? “Some things are just overthought, and need to be left alone I think. Just my opinion.”

That’s when I felt it: that itch to argue. To start listing how “overthinking” gave us medicine, civil rights, space exploration, critical thinking, and the ability to ask whether the status quo even should be left alone.

But instead, I replied calmly:

“Sometimes overthinking is how we uncover the stuff hiding under the surface.”

She came back with:

“That could be really bad and in the long run not helpful. Kinda like Pandora’s box. But I understand some things need to be known.” I went full myth nerd:

“Yeah, opening Pandora’s box definitely unleashed chaos—but also hope was in there too. Can’t forget that part.”

Then came the turn I knew was coming:

“Yep, you are right on that. And mercy, which we don’t deserve.”

Ah. There it was. The theological twist. The Southern Baptist worldview shining through. Mercy as something we’re lucky to get, not something we’re entitled to. A cosmic handout, not a human right.

And that’s where I bit my tongue. Because yeah, I could’ve said that if mercy is real, it shouldn’t be conditional. Or that maybe people don’t deserve suffering either. Or maybe we do deserve mercy because we’re born into a broken system we didn’t ask for and spend our lives trying to make sense of it.

But I didn’t say any of that. I kept the peace. Not because I agreed, but because sometimes family isn’t where the fight lives.

Still, it stuck with me. The way generations talk past each other. The way questioning becomes “overthinking,” and curiosity becomes a threat to tradition. The way a simple book post turns into a theological minefield.

So here I am. Overthinking it, of course.

Just like the philosophers taught me to.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s where hope still lives.

Waiting for the End

I didn’t ask to be born. I didn’t sign up for this whole “life” thing. I just opened my eyes one day and the clock started ticking. Expectations piled on. Rules I never agreed to. A world I didn’t create.

By now, I’m 38. No spouse. No kids. I still live with my mom. That fact alone makes me feel like I’m not a “real adult,” even though I pay attention to the world, think deeply, and try to be a good person. But none of that matters, right? Not in a world where adulthood is measured by mortgages and marriage licenses.

I look around and feel alien. Tired. Like I missed a train everyone else caught, or maybe I was never invited to the station. People around me post pictures of weddings, kids, vacations, “success.” I sit with the weight of just surviving, and sometimes even that feels impossible.

The truth? I’m tired. Bone-deep tired. I’ve had days where I didn’t want to wake up. Days where I felt like checking out would be easier than dragging myself through one more empty cycle of eat-sleep-repeat. I’ve thought, “what’s the point?” more times than I can count.

I didn’t ask for life. But life was handed to me like a debt I didn’t incur, and now I’m supposed to be grateful just for enduring it.

Still… Somewhere in the middle of all that noise, I told someone how I felt. And I wasn’t met with judgment. I wasn’t told to “cheer up” or “get over it.” I was just heard. And sometimes, that’s enough to get through another day. So maybe this blog isn’t a rallying cry or a solution. Maybe it’s just a flare shot into the dark for anyone else who feels this way. You’re not alone. You’re not a failure. And you don’t have to carry this on your own. I don’t know what comes next. I’m still here, and for now, that’s enough.

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.