Shaggieshapiro says..

The World through Shaggie's eyes

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Fifty-something year old, lifelong resident of Rhode Island who decided to move to Southern California, in pursuit of a dream…only to come back to Rhode Island. I also have a passion for politics and a flavor for cotton candy.

  • We Aren’t Burned Out — We’re Slowly Being Harvested

    Burnout implies exhaustion from effort. It suggests you pushed too hard, wanted too much, failed to manage your time or mindset properly. Burnout is convenient because it individualizes the problem. It tells you to buy a planner, meditate harder, drink more water, and return to work refreshed enough to continue breaking yourself.

    But that’s not what’s happening.

    What we’re experiencing isn’t burnout—it’s harvest. Slow, methodical, normalized extraction of attention, labor, hope, and time. A system designed not to collapse you all at once, but to keep you just functional enough to show up tomorrow.

    The cruelty of it is subtle. If it were unbearable, we would revolt. Instead, it’s merely exhausting. And exhaustion makes people compliant.

    We’ve been taught to call this state “normal.”

    Normal to wake up already tired.
    Normal to dread Sundays more than Mondays.
    Normal to answer emails after dinner.
    Normal to carry debt as a permanent companion.
    Normal to feel vaguely anxious even during moments that are supposed to be joyful.

    None of this is acceptable—but we accept it because it’s common. And that distinction matters.

    We confuse normal with acceptable because questioning normal requires energy we no longer have. When you’re running on fumes, you stop imagining alternatives. You stop asking whether life is supposed to feel like this. You assume the problem must be you.

    That’s by design.

    A burned-out person seeks rest.
    A harvested person is denied the clarity to recognize the knife.

    Look closely at how the system talks to you. It praises resilience, grit, adaptability. These sound like virtues, but they’re survival traits—celebrated because they allow you to endure conditions that should never have existed in the first place. We have confused endurance with strength and suffering with virtue.

    Even leisure has been monetized. Rest must be earned. Hobbies must be productive. Healing must be optimized. If you stop moving long enough to breathe, you’re made to feel guilty for wasting time you could be turning into value for someone else.

    And still, we say this is normal.

    What’s abnormal is how quickly we defend it.

    When someone points out that this way of living is corrosive, the response isn’t curiosity—it’s hostility. “That’s just how it is.” “That’s life.” “Be grateful you have a job.” These aren’t arguments; they’re coping mechanisms. They protect the lie because the truth would require too much reckoning.

    Because if this isn’t normal, then it’s intentional.

    And if it’s intentional, then your exhaustion isn’t a flaw—it’s evidence.

    The most dangerous thing you can do in a system like this isn’t rebellion. It’s awareness. Awareness interrupts the harvest. Awareness makes you ask why everything feels heavier while producing less meaning. Awareness reminds you that human beings were not designed to live as infinitely scalable resources.

    You are not lazy.
    You are not ungrateful.
    You are not weak for wanting more than survival.

    You are reacting appropriately to conditions that have been mislabeled as “just the way things are.”

    Normal does not mean acceptable.
    Exhaustion does not mean failure.

    And the moment you stop blaming yourself is the moment the harvest starts to fail.

  • We Confuse Normal With Acceptable

    One of the most effective tricks any system can pull is convincing people that suffering is ordinary—and that ordinary means unchangeable.

    Because once something is labeled normal, it stops being questioned.

    It becomes background noise.

    It becomes life.

    It is now normal to feel tired all the time.
    Normal to be anxious without knowing why.
    Normal to check work messages during dinner.
    Normal to live one minor emergency away from financial ruin.
    Normal to feel like your time doesn’t belong to you.

    None of this would have been considered acceptable a generation ago. But acceptable isn’t the standard we use anymore. Common is. And common is a much lower bar.

    We confuse normal with acceptable because normal feels safer. Normal doesn’t require action. Normal doesn’t demand confrontation. Normal asks nothing of you except endurance.

    Acceptable, on the other hand, requires judgment.

    Judgment forces you to ask dangerous questions:
    Why is this allowed?
    Who benefits from this arrangement?
    Why am I expected to adapt instead of the system being required to change?

    Those questions are exhausting—especially when you’re already depleted. So most people don’t ask them. They internalize the discomfort instead. They assume something must be wrong with them.

    That’s the real damage.

    When unacceptable conditions are normalized, people stop seeing injustice and start seeing personal failure. If you’re overwhelmed, it’s poor time management. If you’re struggling financially, it’s a lack of discipline. If you’re unhappy, it’s your mindset.

    The system remains innocent. The individual absorbs the blame.

    And it works because normalization is gradual. No one wakes up one day living in an unbearable reality. The temperature rises slowly. A little more work here. A little less security there. A little more debt, a little less rest. Each step small enough to tolerate—until suddenly this is just how things are.

    We even defend it.

    When someone dares to suggest that life shouldn’t feel this heavy, the response is immediate and hostile: “That’s just how adulthood is.” “That’s reality.” “Be grateful—it could be worse.” These aren’t truths; they’re survival scripts. They protect the status quo because imagining something better feels too destabilizing.

    Hope can be frightening when you’ve adapted to despair.

    The most revealing thing about normalized suffering is how aggressively it’s moralized. Overwork is called ambition. Exhaustion is called hustle. Obedience is called professionalism. Silence is called maturity.

    Meanwhile, rest must be justified. Boundaries must be explained. Asking for more than survival is framed as entitlement.

    That’s not accidental. A population that believes its discomfort is normal will never demand better conditions. A population that confuses endurance with character will police itself more efficiently than any authority ever could.

    But here’s the fracture in the illusion:

    Normal is not a moral argument.

    The fact that many people are hurting does not mean the hurt is justified. The fact that something is widespread does not make it right. Slavery was once normal. Child labor was once normal. Denying women basic rights was once normal.

    Normal has always been a terrible measure of what should be tolerated.

    The moment you stop asking “Is this normal?” and start asking “Is this acceptable?” something shifts. You reclaim your ability to judge. And judgment is where change begins.

    You are not dramatic for noticing the strain.
    You are not weak for feeling worn down.
    You are not unreasonable for wanting a life that feels humane.

    If this feels wrong, that’s because it is.

    And the problem isn’t that you can’t handle normal life.

    The problem is that we’ve normalized things no human being should ever have been asked to accept.

  • Another New Year, and More Resolutions

    The calendar changes quietly. No thunder. No trumpet. Just a thin, ceremonial flip of paper, like a judge turning a page before delivering a sentence everyone already knows.

    Another new year. And more resolutions.

    They arrive the same way every time—optimistic, freshly showered, wearing borrowed confidence. They line up in the mind like volunteers for a dangerous mission. This year I will be better. Healthier. Kinder. Braver. Less distracted. Less afraid. Less me.

    By January second, they begin to thin out.

    The gym parking lot empties. The planner gathers dust. The language-learning app sends passive-aggressive notifications. The soul, meanwhile, remains stubbornly unchanged—still craving comfort, still allergic to effort, still carrying the same unfinished business from last year like emotional carry-on luggage.

    Resolutions are strange things. They pretend the past is negotiable. That time is a hallway instead of a spiral. That if we walk forward forcefully enough, we won’t trip over the same loose boards.

    But we do. Of course we do.

    Because the truth is uncomfortable and unmarketable: most people don’t fail their resolutions because they lack discipline. They fail because the resolutions themselves are dishonest. They are aspirational lies told at midnight—statements made about who we want to be, without consulting who we actually are.

    “I will wake up early,” says the night owl.
    “I will stop caring what people think,” says the chronic people-pleaser.
    “I will finally be happy,” says someone who has never learned what happiness actually feels like when it’s quiet.

    The new year encourages this fantasy. It sells the idea that change is a transaction instead of a reckoning. That improvement is a checklist rather than an excavation.

    What it doesn’t say is this: growth hurts more than failure ever did.

    Failure is familiar. Growth demands confrontation. It asks uncomfortable questions and waits patiently for answers you don’t want to give. Why do you numb yourself? What are you avoiding? Who benefits when you stay small?

    Those aren’t resolutions. They don’t fit neatly on a sticky note.

    By February, the guilt sets in. Another year already slipping. Another version of yourself abandoned like a half-read self-help book. The internal monologue sharpens. See? You never change. You always do this. Why bother trying?

    But buried under that disappointment is a quieter realization—one most people miss because it doesn’t sound inspiring enough to quote.

    Maybe the problem isn’t that you keep breaking promises to a future version of yourself.

    Maybe it’s that you’ve never made peace with the present one.

    The one who survived last year. The one who adapted. The one who made compromises just to stay standing. The one who learned lessons you can’t yet explain without sounding bitter.

    What if the most radical resolution isn’t to transform—but to tell the truth?

    To resolve to notice instead of overhaul.
    To resolve to listen instead of fix.
    To resolve to stop using January as a whip and start using it as a mirror.

    Another new year arrives, as it always does—indifferent to your ambition, unimpressed by your declarations. It doesn’t ask for vows. It doesn’t demand reinvention. It simply offers days. Blank, ordinary, usable days.

    And maybe that’s enough.

    Because real change doesn’t announce itself at midnight.
    It happens quietly, on a random Tuesday,
    when you choose—just once—to act like someone worth keeping promises to.

  • The Seven Deadly Sins Are Alive, Well, and Wearing Sunday Clothes

    We like to think of the Seven Deadly Sins as relics. Ancient ideas. Medieval superstition. Dusty warnings carved into stone by monks who didn’t understand modern life.

    That’s comforting.

    Because the truth is far more inconvenient:
    the Seven Deadly Sins didn’t disappear—they rebranded. They learned how to smile for cameras, quote scripture, post Bible verses, and sleep soundly at night convinced heaven is still guaranteed.

    We live in an age where people violate every single deadly sin and still believe they’re morally upright. Worse—they believe they are chosen, forgiven by default, exempt by association, and immune to accountability as long as they believe the right things and hate the right people.

    Let’s talk about that.

    Pride: The Sin We Call “Conviction”

    Pride used to be understood as the root of all sin. Now it’s marketed as confidence, righteousness, and “standing firm.”

    Pride is believing you are morally superior because of your beliefs, your politics, your religion, your country, or your bank account.
    Pride is refusing self-examination because you’ve already decided you’re one of the “good ones.”
    Pride is confusing certainty with truth.

    Nothing shuts the gates of heaven faster than a person who believes they have already arrived.

    Greed: Blessed by God, Apparently

    Greed used to be obvious: hoarding wealth while others starve.
    Now it’s called success, hustle, God’s favor.

    We live in a culture where people worship accumulation–while quoting verses about generosity they have no intention of practicing. They step over the poor, exploit the desperate, crush the vulnerable–and call it capitalism, or freedom, or divine reward.

    If your prosperity requires suffering beneath it, don’t call it a blessing. Call it what it is.

    Lust: Not Just Sex Control

    Lust isn’t just sexual obsession. Lust is using people as objects–for pleasure, power, validation, or domination.

    It shows up in pornography, yes–but also in how we consume outrage, how we feed on humiliation, how we enjoy destroying others publicly while pretending it’s justice.

    If your morality evaporates the moment someone becomes useful to your desires, lust is already in control.

    Envy: The Sin That Pretends to Be Moral

    Envy doesn’t always look like jealousy. Sometimes it looks like resentment disguised as righteousness.

    We envy other people’s freedom, happiness, wealth, or influence–and then justify our hatred by claiming they don’t deserve it.
    We root for failure. We celebrate downfall. We wait patiently for others to suffer so we can call it “karma.”

    If someone else’s joy feels like a personal insult, envy has already won.

    Gluttony: Consumption Without Satisfaction

    Gluttony is excess without purpose.
    Endless scrolling. Endless consumption. Endless outrage. Endless indulgence with no reflection.

    We consume food, media, violence, suffering, and dopamine until we are numb—and then wonder why nothing feels meaningful anymore.

    Gluttony doesn’t make you happy. It keeps you distracted enough not to notice the emptiness growing inside.

    Wrath: Righteous Anger on Tap

    Wrath has been baptized as being informed.
    Anger is now a personality. Outrage is a hobby.

    We savor cruelty as long as it’s aimed at the right targets. We justify dehumanization as accountability. We confuse screaming with strength and vengeance with justice.

    Anger can be necessary. But if you enjoy it—if it feeds you—then wrath isn’t a tool. It’s a master.

    Sloth: Moral Laziness

    Sloth isn’t just physical laziness. It’s spiritual and moral avoidance.

    It’s refusing to think deeply.
    Refusing to challenge inherited beliefs.
    Refusing to learn, listen, or change.

    Sloth is letting institutions think for you. It’s choosing comfort over conscience. It’s calling faith “simple” because complexity requires effort.

    If your beliefs have never cost you anything, sloth is doing the heavy lifting.

    The Most Dangerous Lie

    Here’s the lie that ties it all together:

    “I believe the right things, therefore my actions don’t matter.”

    People commit every deadly sin imaginable and still expect heaven like it’s a loyalty reward. As if morality were a subscription service instead of a lived practice. As if forgiveness were a loophole rather than a transformation.

    Belief without introspection is arrogance.
    Faith without humility is theater.
    Morality without action is cosplay.

    The Uncomfortable Truth

    If heaven exists, it is not populated by people who were certain they deserved it.

    It is populated—if at all—by people who wrestled with themselves, questioned their certainty, resisted cruelty, and understood that righteousness is not a label–but a burden.

    The Seven Deadly Sins are not ancient myths.

    They are mirrors.

    And most people don’t like what they see—so they smash the mirror and call themselves saved.

  • True or False:

    Most people aren’t actually avoiding truth because they’re stupid or apathetic—they’re avoiding it because it threatens the story they rely on to feel stable. If you’ve built your worldview, your identity, your politics, your sense of safety on certain assumptions, then confronting a truth that contradicts those assumptions can feel like standing on a collapsing floor.

    I, on the other hand, approach truth like its oxygen. Even if it burns on the way in, it still feels like breathing. That’s a rare posture.

    And the “secret code”?
    When you decode manipulation—propaganda, corporate narratives, political theater, the illusions about class and opportunity—suddenly the gears behind the machine become visible. And once seen, they can’t be unseen.

    But here’s the thing:

    Seeing truth is uncomfortable. Living inside illusions is comfortable.
    Most people will choose comfort.

    People cling to narratives that protect them from the terror of uncertainty:

    • “America is fair.”
    • “If I work hard, I’ll succeed.”
    • “The people in power earned their place.”
    • “The news is telling me what’s real.”
    • “My vote and my struggle materially change the system.”

    Letting go feels like free-falling for many. For me, though? It’s liberation. It’s expanding the frame instead of shrinking into it.

    Most people filter.
    I don’t.
    I just observe.

  • The Seductive Lie: How Corporate America Uses Beauty, Outrage, and Distraction to Keep Us Consuming

    When Sabrina Carpenter released the controversial cover art for Man’s Best Friend, people rushed to argue about the imagery. They debated whether the image was degrading, empowering, symbolic, tone-deaf, or intentionally provocative. Carpenter herself said the artwork reflected “how people try to control women, and how I felt emotionally yanked around by relationships.” And that explanation is valid, honest, and rooted in real emotional experience.

    But I think it goes deeper than that — maybe deeper than even she intended.
    I think the image tells a story that most Americans desperately need to hear:

    That corporations have mastered the art of seduction. That they package control as beauty, obedience as glamour, and manipulation as desire. That they don’t need to yank our hair — they only need to make us want the hand doing the pulling.

    Sabrina’s image is provocative not because it’s sexual, but because it’s familiar.
    We have all been Melissa. We have all been Sabrina. We have all been held in place by an invisible hand we learned to love.

    The truth is simple: America is run by a corporate class that survives by selling illusions. They don’t just sell products — they sell the fantasy that we cannot live without them. Everything is branding, everything is packaging, everything is a curated image meant to obscure the decay underneath.

    Sabrina Carpenter is beautiful. But remove the makeup, wash off the lighting, eliminate the perfect posing, and what remains? A human being — imperfect, vulnerable, real. And that is exactly what corporations never want us to see, whether we’re looking at her or at the products they shove down our throats.

    The First Lie: Beauty Equals Value

    Corporations sell beauty like it’s morality.
    If the package looks good, the contents must be good.
    If the model looks healthy, the product must work.
    If the celebrity looks happy, success must be reachable.

    We fall for it because we are wired to respond to beauty — not because we’re shallow, but because beauty historically meant safety, health, and vitality.

    Corporations hijacked that instinct.

    Now beauty is weaponized.
    It keeps us opening our wallets.
    It keeps us comparing ourselves to impossible standards.
    It keeps us consuming, trying to fill a void they created.

    Sabrina’s cover art isn’t dangerous because it’s sexual — it’s dangerous because it mirrors our addiction to aesthetic obedience. She is “beautiful,” therefore desirable. She is “desirable,” therefore valuable. Corporations want the same for themselves: an unbroken chain connecting seduction to success.

    The Second Lie: Outrage Is Engagement

    People think corporations fear backlash.
    They don’t.

    They love it.

    Outrage is oxygen.
    Controversy is currency.
    The more we scream, the more they sell.

    Every angry tweet, every think-piece, every argument fuels the machine. We believe we are fighting them. Really, we are advertising for them.

    The moment Sabrina’s cover became “offensive,” the album became a cultural event.
    The controversy was the marketing.

    Politicians use the same trick. They provoke on purpose because it keeps us watching, reacting, frothing, reposting. Our anger is their analytics. Our fury is their fuel.

    The Third Lie: You’re Free

    America tells us we’re free while giving us only two acceptable roles:

    Consumer or product.

    Either we are buying something, or we are the thing being sold. When Sabrina kneels in that artwork, the metaphor is not about her — it’s about us. We are the ones on all fours. We are the ones with the leash around our necks. We are the ones whispering “I love you” to systems that exploit us.

    The top 1% owns 32% of all wealth in this nation.
    The bottom 50% owns 2.5%.

    You cannot call that freedom.
    You can only call it branding.

    The Fourth Lie: Government Is Real Power

    People blame politicians for everything — but they’re puppets.
    Government is the theater.
    Corporations are the playwrights.

    You think the wars happen because of ideology?
    You think the bills pass because of values?
    You think senators lose sleep over you?

    No.

    They lose sleep over their donors.

    Government plays the same role as makeup and lighting on Sabrina’s face: a veneer designed to distract from the true structure underneath.

    While we argue about red vs. blue, corporations make billions.
    While we fight about rights, they buy senators.
    While we rage about culture wars, they quietly privatize essential sectors of life: health care, housing, water, and information.

    Government is a decoy.
    Corporations are the puppeteers.

    The Final Lie: You Are Powerless

    The cruelest trick of all is convincing people their voice is meaningless — that the machine is too big, the system too entrenched, the wealthy too untouchable.

    But here’s the cosmic joke:

    The machine only works because we keep feeding it.
    We are the battery.
    We are the currency.
    We are the workforce, the viewership, the consumers, the audience.
    We create the value they harvest.

    The moment we stop worshipping the packaging, the illusions collapse.

    The Truth Beneath the Makeup

    Sabrina Carpenter wasn’t trying to start a revolution with her album cover, but the image she created accidentally reveals the truth about America:

    We are seduced into compliance.
    Manipulated into desire.
    Controlled through beauty.
    Distracted by outrage.
    And convinced that the hand in our hair is a hand worth loving.

    But the makeup eventually comes off.
    The packaging eventually peels.
    The illusion eventually cracks.

    And when it does, the truth will no longer be something we fear — it will be something we finally recognize:

    We were never powerless.
    We were only taught to kneel    .

  • Thursday Follow Up Post

    Tuesday, I shared a story from twenty years ago — a story about Melissa, unrequited love, and the kind of heartbreak you only experience once.

    But the point of that story wasn’t romance.

    It was growth.

    It was about learning one of the hardest lessons life teaches us:

    Not everything you want is meant for you.
    Not everyone you choose will choose you back.
    And sometimes, the door that closes is the one that finally sets you free.

    When we’re young, we chase things for the wrong reasons.
    We confuse infatuation with destiny.
    We mistake attention for affection.
    And too often, we try to earn love the way we earn a paycheck — through effort, proving ourselves, “being enough.”

    But here’s what time eventually teaches you:

    Love isn’t earned.
    Self-worth isn’t negotiated.
    And closure doesn’t come from other people — it comes from finally choosing yourself.

    Melissa didn’t love me back.
    And that’s okay.

    Because the truth is, I didn’t need her love to become who I am today.
    The real turning point wasn’t her. It was the moment I stopped chasing what wasn’t mine and started investing in what was:

    • My goals
    • My growth
    • My boundaries
    • My future

    If you’re holding onto someone or something that isn’t holding onto you — a relationship, a job, a friendship, a past version of yourself — let this be your sign:

    You deserve the things that want you back.

    And walking away isn’t losing.
    Sometimes, it’s the first real win.

  • “The Woman Who Never Loved Me Back.”

    There was a time, twenty years ago, when I fell in love. But it wasn’t one of those slow, predictable stories where you meet a girl, get to know her, and eventually fall for her. No — this was love at first sight.

    Her body hit all the right notes in my groin. Her hair, her eyes, her cheeks, even her teeth made me stumble over my words. She was the most beautiful girl on the planet, and her name was Melissa. She was the kind of beautiful that made me run away every time I saw her — and somehow, that turned out to be a good thing.

    I was obsessed with Melissa in the way a creepy fan obsesses over a celebrity. I’d go home every night and come up with clever ways to ask her out, only to chicken out the next morning.

    Back then, I kept a journal. Day after day, week after week, month after month — every entry was about my thoughts, hopes, fears, and imaginary future with Melissa. She basically lived rent-free in my head– for years.

    Then one Saturday, while I was training a new employee, I finally confessed my feelings to him. He laughed and told me he had slept with her.
    I froze. “What???”

    He went on to describe how they hooked up and how she was terrible in bed. And strangely, that didn’t make me think any less of her.

    Over time, I heard more stories about coworkers having intimate nights with my beloved Melissa. And for some bizarre reason, the more I heard, the more I felt like my chances were increasing. So eventually, I decided it was time to ask her out.

    One day, as I walked into work, Melissa called me into her office. She shut the door behind me and told me she needed money for a wedding she was going to. I asked how much, and she said, “Anything you can give will help.”
    So I said, “How about $300?”

    She jumped up and down, telling me how much she loved me. And looking her straight in the face, I told her I loved her more than she knew.

    That $300 was basically my entire paycheck. I needed that money. But in some sad, twisted way, I thought I could buy her love.

    Years passed. I worked third shift; she worked first. She had trouble waking up in the mornings, so she’d ask me to call her at 5 a.m. She always sounded sexy when she first woke up. I’d call, we’d talk for a few minutes, and she’d tell me to call again in five. Every call ended with an “I love you,” and of course, I’d reply, “I love you too.”

    Eventually she quit her job, and I struggled to stop thinking about her. I moved on, got involved with another girl, quit my job, and started fresh somewhere else. I was doing well — until I got laid off.

    Then fate twisted the knife: the next place I applied, Melissa was working there.

    It was as if God were giving me a sign… but not the one I expected. She looked different to me. No butterflies. No heart racing. I realized maybe God wasn’t bringing us together — maybe He was letting me finally move on.

    I quit that job too, and when Melissa begged me to help her get hired at my new workplace, for the first time in my life, I said no.
    The old me would’ve folded instantly.
    The new me didn’t.

    She never paid me back the $300, and I repaid that debt by not getting her the job she wanted. It was the closure I needed all along.

    Eventually, she found her “perfect” man. She has a family now, the love she wanted, the life she dreamed of. And honestly — I’m happy for her.

    They say good things come to those who wait. But I think good things come to those who want good things, who reach for them, who know when something is meant for them — and when something isn’t.

    My life was better for having Melissa in it.
    And my life is better for her not being in it anymore.
    She belongs in someone else’s life — someone who can give her everything she wants.

  • Leaning Into Danger–Thankful on Thanksgiving Day

    I’ve always been terrible at protecting myself from the obvious dangers.

    When I was younger, I would walk home late at night in neighborhoods I shouldn’t have. Crossing paths with people who could’ve hurt me? No problem. My mind didn’t even register the risk. Wallet in hand, headphones in, walking like I owned the streets. Meanwhile, I’d treat things like health warnings, deadlines, or minor discomfort with the utmost caution. Irony, right?

    One time, I went out for a “quick” solo hike in the mountains. I knew the trails were sketchy. The weather looked fine, the map was on my phone, but my preparation? Nonexistent. No first aid kit, no water, no backup plan. Just me and the mountain. I leaned into that danger like it was a dare—and it was.

    Contrast that with how I used to obsess over trivial dangers: the exact angle to hold a knife when chopping vegetables, triple-checking the stove, making sure my shoes were clean before leaving the house. Those things I feared as if my life depended on them. The real danger? That came later, in the mountain sun, on uneven rocks, alone.

    And that’s life. We obsess over the wrong risks and sidestep the things that truly test us. Maybe it’s laziness, maybe it’s fear, maybe it’s instinct—but leaning into danger sometimes teaches you more than avoiding it ever could.

    So yeah, I’ve been reckless. I’ve been careful. I’ve gotten lucky. I’ve gotten burned. And I’m learning, slowly, that the trick isn’t avoiding danger—it’s knowing which ones actually matter.

    Happy Thanksgiving to all my fellow Americans

  • Danger! Danger!

    Humans are amazing creatures. We will do absolutely anything to protect ourselves from what we fear—while ignoring the things that will actually hurt us.

    1. The streets. A man sees a Black youth crossing his path. Heart rate spikes. Wallet clutched. Thoughts of mugging, assault, maybe even death. Meanwhile, he laughs at mask mandates and COVID warnings, calling them “hoaxes.” The virus will get him before the kid ever could.
    2. The inbox. One click and your computer might explode—so they triple-check every email. Meanwhile, they text and drive, sip espresso while speeding, scroll Instagram at 70 miles per hour, believing no harm will come. Reality has different rules.
    3. The organic aisle. Non-GMO, pesticide-free, kale, quinoa, avocado toast—they spend hundreds on these “life-saving” foods. But they chain-smoke, binge alcohol, and sacrifice sleep like it’s a superpower. Their lungs and liver are laughing at their choices.
    4. Home fortresses. Cameras, alarms, motion sensors, reinforced doors. A criminal might knock once every ten years—but stress, untreated anxiety, and inflammation? Silent assassins in the living room.
    5. Social media. Every headline, every “fake news” post, every troll: they dodge it all like bullets. Meanwhile, they ignore the real bullets: loneliness, fractured relationships, missed chances to connect. The human soul has no unsubscribe button.
    6. The gym. Perfect form, protein ratios, treadmills, PRs. Obsessed. Yet their posture is crumbling. Back pain ignored. Flexibility gone. All that obsessing can’t undo a sedentary life the other 23 hours.
    7. Children online. Scared of predators lurking in chat rooms, they install parental controls, track every click, scrutinize every friend request. Meanwhile, the real predators—neglect, absence, ignorance, apathy—are at the dinner table every night.
    8. Travel. They obsessively buy travel insurance, check TSA rules, read every CDC warning. But their body? Untreated conditions, stress, no exercise, poor diet. The plane is safe; their own health is a free fall.

    We are hilarious. We barricade ourselves from the imaginary, the unlikely, the statistically trivial. And then we lean casually into what will actually destroy us.

    Ask yourself: Are you protecting yourself from danger—or running headfirst into it while calling it “freedom”?

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