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.

A List of My Heroes and Influences

Albert Camus

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

Bill Hicks

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

Emil Cioran

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

Doug Stanhope

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

Che Guevara

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

Malcolm X

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

Arthur Schopenhauer

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

Thomas Ligotti

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

Stephen King

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

Noam Chomsky

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

Peter Kropotkin

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

Borders Are Peak Absurdity

Borders are one of the more absurd human constructs. They’re just imaginary lines that people violently enforce to keep others in or out, usually for the benefit of those in power. There’s no natural reason why one side of a river or a mountain should “belong” to one group of people and not another—it’s all about control, resources, and maintaining systems of power.

It’s wild how people will fight and die over borders, even though they only exist because some long-dead rulers or colonizers decided they should. It’s even wilder how most people just accept them as some kind of universal truth rather than a completely arbitrary system designed to divide and exploit.

Borders are peak human absurdity. We literally drew invisible lines on a planet that was just sitting here, existing just fine without them, and decided that stepping over those lines without permission is a crime. Then we built fences, walls, and armies to enforce those lines—often with deadly force.

It gets even more ridiculous when you look at history. Half the time, borders were drawn by some random guys in a room with no connection to the land or the people living there (looking at you, colonialism). Sometimes, entire countries were created or erased by the stroke of a pen, with no regard for the people actually living there. The Middle East? Carved up by Europeans who didn’t even live there. Africa? Sliced into pieces at a conference table in Berlin.

Even within so-called “stable” countries, borders shift. The U.S. stole half of Mexico. Poland has been shuffled around like a deck of cards. And yet, people act like today’s borders are sacred and eternal, as if they weren’t just violently imposed or changed a hundred years ago.

And don’t even get me started on how some borders are enforced for some people and not others. If you’re rich, borders barely exist—you can buy citizenship, get special visas, or just own enough property to move freely. But if you’re poor? Good luck. You could be running from war, climate disaster, or starvation, and still, some bureaucrat will tell you, “Sorry, wrong side of the line.”

At the end of the day, borders are just another tool to maintain inequality. They protect wealth, resources, and power, not people. They’re imaginary lines with real-world consequences, and the fact that we still take them seriously in 2025 is honestly embarrassing.

Top 5 Favorite Books

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

The Stranger by Albert Camus

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

The Myth of Sisyphus by Albert Camus

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

Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace

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

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

Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy

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

The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck

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

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

The Ashwood Grill

No one noticed when The Ashwood Grill burned down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joe hesitated. “You burned down.”

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

“I saw it. I saw the fire.”

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

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

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

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

Barb smiled, “See you tomorrow, Joe.”

He left, the door jingling behind him.

No one noticed when The Ashwood Grill burned down.

And no one noticed when it came back.

The Eternal Waiter

There was a man named Gregor who worked as a waiter at a restaurant that no one ever seemed to visit. The building was enormous. An architectural monstrosity that stretched far beyond what was needed for any reasonable number of customers. The windows were perpetually clouded with dust, and the floor creaked with every step. Still, Gregor showed up every day at 11 a.m., precisely on the hour, and stood behind the counter.

For years, he waited.

Occasionally, the door would swing open with a dramatic screech, but no one would enter. Yet Gregor remained, polishing the empty glasses, adjusting the already perfectly folded napkins, and rearranging the menu for no one in particular. The menu, of course, was endless; an impossible list of dishes that spanned all the way to the horizon. Some items, like Essence of Tomorrow and Stew of Yesterday, seemed more like philosophical concepts than food. But Gregor knew them by heart.

One day, in the middle of wiping down an already spotless table, he saw a figure in the distance, at the far end of the restaurant. It was a woman, dressed in a wide-brimmed hat and an extravagant gown that shimmered as though made of forgotten stars. She walked slowly toward him, her shoes clicking on the floor in a rhythm that sounded like the ticking of a clock.

“Hello,” she said when she finally reached his counter.

Gregor stared at her, blinking. It was the first time someone had spoken to him in years.

“Are you ready to order?” he asked, unsure of the appropriate protocol for such an event. It had been so long since he’d expected an actual customer.

The woman smiled, but her smile seemed to vanish before it fully formed. “I don’t know,” she said, gazing at the menu. “What do you recommend?”

Gregor hesitated. The menu was a labyrinth of absurdities, and he knew better than to suggest Beef of Forgotten Futures or Chicken that Should Have Been Left Alone. But somehow, despite the meaninglessness of it all, he felt an odd sense of duty.

“The Soup of Your Dreams,” he said, pointing to a small, unassuming item at the very bottom of the list.

She nodded and sat down at one of the many empty tables, her eyes never leaving the menu. Gregor disappeared into the kitchen, though there was no one there to prepare the soup. The kitchen was, like the rest of the restaurant, a mockery of activity, a space where pots and pans hung still, gathering dust. There was no soup, of course.

He returned to the counter, holding an empty bowl, and placed it in front of the woman.

“Here,” he said. “The Soup of Your Dreams.”

The woman stared at the empty bowl for a long moment. Then she stood up without a word, turned, and began walking toward the door. The door squealed open, but she didn’t exit. Instead, she began walking back toward the horizon of the restaurant, getting smaller and smaller as she approached the other end.

Gregor watched her go. After a long pause, he stood up, walked back to the counter, and began polishing an already polished glass.

It was a cycle he knew all too well. A cycle that, like his waiting, had no purpose and no end. But, like the universe itself, he would continue the motions. The door would open again, no one would come, and the glass would need polishing. Always.

And so, in the heart of the empty restaurant, Gregor waited.