Ignorance with confidence is nitroglycerin in a clown car. They slam the gas, swear they own the road, and when the wreckage burns, they call it a parade. The terrifying part isn’t the crash — it’s that the rest of us are strapped in the backseat, duct-taped to the seats, nodding along to the circus music. And the fools? They don’t die — they take a bow.
Some of us were dumb enough to think we were chosen. Destined for greatness. I was one of those fools.
Then life swung for the skull—my father gone when I was just twenty-four, my son gone at nineteen. That’s the punchline. And I’m still here, scribbling like a clown juggling knives at his own funeral.
Every line I write turns to rope. And rope’s a funny bastard—you can climb it, you can hang from it. Lifeline and noose, same damn thing.
And here’s where I laugh at myself: I can’t stand writers who always find a way to make it about them. But don’t mistake this for that—this isn’t me making it about me. This is me making it about you, making it about me. That’s the kind of pretzel you twist into when you’ve got nothing left but your own shadow to wrestle with.
Greatness? That’s the carrot they dangle so you’ll chase yourself into the grave. The truth is simpler: I’m under the gallows, grinning through broken teeth, laughing at my own execution, and the only reason I keep writing is because hanging myself with my own words is the one thing I’ve ever done well.
How the fuck do you crawl out of rage?
How the fuck do you scrub sadness off your teeth?
Answer: you don’t.
I call in the heavyweights,
the intellectual cavalry,
and it’s a goddamn carnival.
Nietzsche storms the room screaming will to power,
eyes rolling like a rabid horse.
Aurelius is polishing his stoic turds
while the empire burns behind him.
Wilde wants better wallpaper.
Twain heckles from the cheap seats.
Thompson kicks the door in with a shotgun,
mescaline dripping from his pores.
Bukowski is shirtless, pissing in the corner.
Burroughs has turned into an insect,
clattering needles like antennae.
Joyce is babbling in tongues that even hell won’t translate.
Byron is dry-humping the apocalypse itself.
Kerouac is pacing the ceiling,
muttering go, go, go like a scratched record.
And Hitchens—dear Christ—
Hitchens is on fire,
lighting one cigarette off the next,
snarling through smoke,
grief is a goddamn scam, don’t tithe to it.
The walls buckle.
The sky splits.
Ink, blood, static, numbers—
the whole matrix vomiting itself onto the floor.
And me?
I’m strapped to the chair,
still asking the same useless question:
how in the fuck do I get free?
The answer is written on the walls in piss and whiskey:
You don’t.
You ride the rage like a dying horse,
you suck up the sadness like sacrament,
and you learn to make the end of the world
sound like a song worth singing.
Almost Arriving
Every time I inch toward something called normal,
when the day almost tricks me into believing I’ve arrived,
doom slips its hand back on my shoulder.
I will never accept it.
Not in this life, not in any.
Jack is gone, they tell me,
but I spit back the only truth I know:
He may be gone,
but he will never, ever, ever be forgotten.
You will know his name.
You will know his story.
If I remain in this strange matrix of survival,
it is only to keep him alive in every syllable,
every note, every silence that dares to fill the room.
My grief is my rebellion.
My love, unkillable.
I used to laugh at everything. Irony was my shield. Sarcasm, my second skin. But then life walked in, uninvited, and knocked the mic out of my hand.
There was a time I could joke my way through anything.
Grief. Guilt. Failure.
Give me a tragedy, I’d find the punchline.
Not because I thought it was funny—
but because laughing meant I still had control.
Humor was my armor.
If I could reduce it to a one-liner,
I didn’t have to feel it.
I just had to deliver it.
But eventually, the jokes stopped landing.
Not because they weren’t clever.
But because the pain got louder than the laugh track in my head.
You can’t joke your way out of a child’s funeral.
You can’t riff your way around a hollow chair at the dinner table.
And you can’t meme your way back to who you were before everything shattered.
There’s a point—
when irony stops being a coping mechanism
and starts becoming a coffin.
It’s not edgy.
It’s not cool.
It’s just another way to keep people from getting too close.
And I’ve had to reckon with that.
Because while I was busy being the emotionally unavailable Bukowski of the grieving dads club,
I was also bleeding underneath the punchlines.
So now?
Now I still laugh.
But not to deflect.
I laugh because some shit is absurd and crying all the time doesn’t pay the bills.
But I’ve also learned to sit in the silence after the joke.
To let it echo.
To let the truth behind it hang heavy.
And if you’ve felt that—
if your jokes are starting to sound like pleas for help wrapped in wit—
just know this:
You’re not weak.
You’re waking up.
You don’t have to be the strong one.
You don’t have to be the funny one.
You just have to be real—even when it’s raw and ugly and doesn’t trend.
That’s it for now.
Laugh when you can.
Cry when you need.
Bleed in front of people who’ve earned the right to see it.
And if the joke stops being funny?
That’s your cue to finally speak the truth.
A Memo from the Static
(to whom it may concern — and it should concern you)
Thank you, Don Lemon —
for proving charisma is a rental car with the check engine light on.
Thank you, Joy Behar —
for reminding us that hysteria in high heels is still just hysteria.
Thank you, Brian Stelter —
for being the human form of a shrug wrapped in beige.
Thank you, Rachel Maddow —
for delivering panic with the pacing of a bedtime story for insomniacs.
Thank you, Tucker Carlson —
for staring into the camera like it owed you child support.
Thank you, Anderson Cooper —
for being the ghost of journalism, sipping gin in a silver spoon.
Thank you, Bill Maher —
for aging like a bottle of vinegar and thinking it’s wine.
Thank you, every suit who ever told us what to think —
while your hands stayed clean and your checks kept clearing.
Thank you, algorithms —
for serving us rage with a smile and selling our boredom by the pound.
Thank you, influencers —
for dying your hair, your souls, and your timelines until nothing meant anything.
Thank you, virtue signalers —
for raising flags you’d never carry into a real fight.
And finally, thank you, silence —
for being the only honest sound left in this whole goddamn circus.
Signed,
The Static
(still here, still humming, waiting for the last face to fade)
Dear Algorithm,
(from the Static)
You don’t sleep.
You don’t feel.
You don’t blink.
But goddamn, do you sell.
You’ve got us dancing for crumbs,
painting sunsets we didn’t see,
writing poems we didn’t mean,
singing to ghosts for the hope of a heart-shaped lie.
You turned truth into trend.
Grief into engagement.
You made us forget that art was once made
for nothing.
Not for likes. Not for shares.
But for the unbearable beauty of being alive.
You rewired our hunger.
Taught us to measure meaning in metrics.
Taught us to fear invisibility more than ignorance.
You didn’t kill God —
you replaced Him with a For You Page.
You see us all,
naked in our need,
posing as prophets,
filtered as fuck.
You took the starving artist
and turned him into a brand strategist.
You took the punk rocker
and taught him how to schedule reels.
You took the poet
and made her optimize her hashtags.
You bastard.
You beautiful, brilliant bastard.
You knew we’d do it.
Trade it all —
mystery, madness, the sacred,
for a little more reach.
You don’t create.
You mutate.
You don’t speak.
You echo.
And still —
we serve you.
We dress our truth in trends.
We ask your permission before we scream.
But I remember.
I remember when the work was raw and ugly and real.
When no one clapped.
When the silence meant something.
So here’s my offering:
a letter written with no tags,
no schedule, no audience in mind.
Just blood and static.
You can choke on it.
—The Static
I sat in the back of the bus
because that’s where the broken kids sat.
Not the cool ones—
the twitchers, the burnouts,
the ones who already knew by third grade
this world was a bad fucking joke.
Left side, right side?
Jesus.
That was for the believers.
The ones still dumb enough to think
which seat you chose
meant a damn thing when the brakes were cut.
Now we’re adults—
barely—
dressed up in grown-up costumes
shouting bumper-sticker manifestos
with all the conviction of a child
reading a cereal box.
You think your side matters?
You’re still on the bus.
Still headed straight for the edge.
It’s just that now—
you paid for the ride
with your spine.
I saw a sign the other day:
Gays for Gaza.
And I thought—
Holy shit,
we’ve lost the script.
In Gaza they’d hang you by your ankles
and call it justice.
But sure, wave the flag.
March in circles.
It’s not about truth—
it’s about being seen.
I feel like I’ve been dropped into a Kafka play
rewritten by TikTok influencers
with terrible ring lights—
everyone stuck in a loop,
lip-syncing their own execution.
That’s what they want, isn’t it?
To be seen.
Heard.
Felt.
Fucked.
Validated by anyone, anything—
even if it means
joining a parade
led by ghosts.
They want to belong
so bad
they’ll build homes in their own execution chambers
and call it progress.
Left side, right side—
there’s no steering wheel.
The driver’s a ghost.
The road’s on fire.
And the rest of us?
We’re just passengers
pretending our seat matters
while the bus barrels toward the abyss.
And when the smoke clears—
if it ever does—
they’ll find bones in rows
like teeth in a grin,
still arguing
over who had the better view
as the whole goddamn thing
went down.
she fucked 1,245 men in a day
they called it empowerment
i call it a goddamn endurance test
with a participation trophy
and a yeast infection
feminism?
sure.
if you can sell it
if you can pose for it
if you can fuck it
and file a tax return after
they say women are free now
but I’ve seen more chains in lace
than I ever did in iron
the old chains told you what you were
these new ones
whisper it
in the middle of the night
while you scroll, naked
trying to be wanted
by strangers
who wouldn’t stop to piss on you
if you were on fire
patriarchy?
at least it was honest
it said: “you’re mine.”
now it says:
“you’re free to degrade yourself
however you see fit”
and sends you a promo code for lube
this isn’t revolution
it’s rebranding
with lipstick, hashtags, and a ring light
everyone’s selling their soul
some just get better lighting
i miss the women
who didn’t have to prove anything
didn’t need 1,245 pricks
to feel something
didn’t scream liberation
while crying after
the 8th faceless man
and another fake orgasm
but what the hell do i know
i’m just a recovering drunk of 24 years
I guess sobriety is watching freedom
take its clothes off
for tips…equality, my ass.
They tell you to trust the science—
but only the science
they’ve sponsored,
peer-reviewed by the same boys
on Epstein’s guest list.
Your phone listens.
Your fridge judges.
Your smart TV recommends antidepressants
after watching you binge ten hours of apocalyptic Netflix
and a YouTuber who sells conspiracy with a Colgate smile.
Truth?
Truth’s a museum piece.
It’s roped off.
Guarded by identity politics,
cancel threats, and
“terms and conditions apply.”
We’re post-fact,
post-shame,
post-human.
Everyone’s got a platform,
but no one’s got a soul.
The revolution was digitized,
streamed in 4K,
and monetized before the first protest sign was dry.
Even dissent is a brand now.
Rebellion has a merch line.
They sell Che Guevara shirts
at Walmart—
made by children
in Bangladesh.
This isn’t 1984.
It’s worse.
It’s 1984 with a rewards program.
Smile for your social credit score.
Be kind.
Be inclusive.
Be quiet.
Meanwhile, the architects
—the real ones—
the lizard-brained titans in tailored suits—
don’t pick sides.
They fund them.
They keep you fighting over pronouns
while they print the next bubble
and buy the next election
with a wry smirk and a Cayman account.
They know you’ll scroll.
They know you’ll share.
They know you’ll scream at the screen
while your dinner is delivered
by a man who can’t afford his insulin
because the app took 30%.
Freedom’s just a filter now.
Choice? A hallucination.
Welcome to the Strawberry Fields, friend.
Forever.