Charlie Kirk was gunned down for the crime of speaking his mind. The same people who call us “fascists” applauded the bullet, booed the silence, and celebrated leaving a wife and two young kids without their father. They didn’t silence him ... they martyred him.

We used to say “agree to disagree.” Now it’s “agree or get fired.” Welcome to corporate America, where holding a normal, non-radical opinion is suddenly a liability—and HR is just customer service for online mobs.

Language is how we describe reality — not how we escape it. You don’t get to invent your own definitions and force the world to play along. That’s not self-expression. That’s control.

I didn’t set out to be an ISTP. I didn’t choose to be the quiet, analytical badass who fixes the problem while everyone else is still talking about it — but here we are. I’m not cold. I’m efficient. I don’t need your committee, I need a tool and ten minutes.

Illegal immigration isn’t compassionate—it’s collapse in slow motion. If you want to be American, great. But you don’t start that journey by breaking the law, waving another country’s flag, and demanding we change to match the place you ran from. That’s not immigration. That’s infiltration.

I grew up in the age of “shut the hell up and deal with it.” Gen X didn’t get therapy—we got sarcasm and emotional duct tape. Now I build tools for therapists helping kids... and I worry. Because the stigma we swallowed whole? It’s still alive. It just hasn’t reached the playground yet. But it will. Unless we do something.

I’m fat—and not in the cute Instagram-influencer way. I’ve tried every diet, counted every calorie, and still gained weight on monk-level rations. It’s not just me. The food is broken. The advice is broken. And Ancel Keys can rot. Here’s how we got here... and how I’m clawing my way out.

Oil doesn’t come from dinosaurs. Never did. Your car runs on ancient sea slime, not a cremated stegosaurus. It’s time we stop parroting Flintstones science and give some respect to the real MVPs: plankton, pressure, and a billion years of planetary stew.

When you start treating murder like a valid political option, you’re not defending democracy—you’re burning it down from the inside. This isn’t righteous anger. This is cowardice wrapped in moral cosplay. And if you’re cheering for blood, you’ve already become the villain in the story you think you’re starring in.

Tipping used to be a thank-you. Now it’s a guilt trip wrapped in a touchscreen, shoved in your face before you’ve even been served. I’m not tipping the airport. I’m not tipping a self-checkout. And I sure as hell won’t tip 50% because you spun an iPad at me. This isn’t generosity — it’s emotional blackmail.

The beauty industry doesn’t sell confidence. It sells insecurity wrapped in a $200 jar. From magnifying mirrors that turn pores into craters to influencers hawking “preventative aging” serums for kids, women are drowning in a cycle of self-doubt and corporate greed. And the worst part? They’re paying for it.

Forget glass slippers and enchanted forests. The fiercest Disney princess of them all wore a ball gown in a war zone and carried a combat boot like it was a royal scepter. Sorry, Leia—Klinger’s got this.

Modern feminism told women they didn’t need men. Now they’re saying they’d rather face a grizzly bear than a guy on the street. This isn’t empowerment—it’s a warning sign.

We used to grab muskets over a 1% tax. Now we hand over 30–40% and say “thank you.” At least a real thief doesn’t pretend it’s for your own good.

Being a cop will break you in ways you didn’t think possible. The hours, the pay, the public hate—all of it grinds you down. But it’s the people you can’t save that haunt you. Jenny was one of them. And maybe, deep down, I’m more like her than I want to admit.

People love to scream about capitalism while reaping every single one of its benefits—streaming Netflix on a $2,000 MacBook, sipping overpriced lattes in climate-controlled luxury. They think they’re raging against "the system," but they’re its favorite customer. And socialism? That utopia ends with breadlines, secret police, and people vanishing in the night.

Voyager 1’s been chugging along since 1977, 24 billion kilometers out, still doing its job. Meanwhile, your $1,200 phone can’t survive three years. Welcome to our disposable society, where nothing’s built to last—on purpose.

The Amiga 500 was the future multitasking, custom chips, real audio, a GUI that didn’t suck and Commodore flushed it down the toilet. This is a pissed-off love letter to what could’ve been the standard today, if the suits hadn’t bungled the best damn machine of the ‘80s.

AI isn’t replacing software developers ... it’s exposing the ones who never really were. It’s not here to think, reason, or untangle a decade-old monolith. It’s here to autocomplete boilerplate and hallucinate with confidence. The real work still needs humans. So no, I’m not scared. I’m just tired of explaining this every six months.

Somewhere along the line, political correctness stopped being about kindness and became a muzzle. Speaking plain truth without malice is now treated like a crime. We're not building a better society by avoiding offense; we're building a brittle one afraid of real conversation.