I just don’t give a shit any more.
I throw ideas out there. Sometimes they’re half-baked, nearly all ways they’re shit— or least everyone tells me so literally non-stop. I stopped trying to convince people a long time ago. Why bother? Every time I put something out, the response is predictable: insults, dismissal, death threats. The world doesn’t want to hear it, doesn’t want to change, doesn’t want to think. It’s easier for most people to yell at the messenger than to face uncomfortable truths.
So I write for myself now. I have effectively given up. I take a quiet, almost sadistic pleasure in it. I know none my ideas will catch fire, not in a million years. They’ll be ignored, ridiculed, buried under the noise of a world that’s marching faster every day toward dystopia, hell, or just plain oblivion. This species is yet another spasm in a hateful, genocidal universe. We’ll soon be yet another dead branch. And honestly? I can’t stop it. No one can. We’re all along for the ride to whatever end this shitshow has in store.
So I keep writing, keep throwing my words into the void. Because why not? If the world’s going to die, if everything’s going to collapse into some grotesque mess, maybe it’s worth enjoying the chaos, embracing the futility.
And when it all finally falls apart, when no one is left standing except the ruins and the ghosts, I’ll point to these old shit articles and politely say : “I told you so“.
My conscience is clean. I tried.