Esoteric Meandering Shouting Into the Void

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Donnie the Kleptocrat’s Grand Shopping Spree

No one should be shocked—shocked—to discover that Donnie the Kleptocrat has turned the Oval Office into the departure lounge for a never-ending world tour. Some presidents collect stamps or state gifts. Donnie collects countries, resources, and excuses, preferably in bulk and preferably with a Sharpie-signed receipt that reads “Mine.”

This is not foreign policy so much as it is retail therapy with aircraft carriers.

The itinerary is predictable. Venezuela, for instance, was always going to be on the list. A nation sitting atop oceans of oil is basically a flashing neon sign to Donnie, the geopolitical shoplifter, blinking CLEARANCE SALE. The justification, of course, is noble. It’s never about oil. It’s about drugs. Everything is about drugs. Drugs are the diplomatic duct tape that fixes every narrative problem. Oil under the ground? Coincidence. Sanctions, pressure, destabilization? Totally unrelated. This is a moral crusade, you see—one that just happens to smell faintly of gasoline.

And now, Nigeria.

Nigeria is rich in rare earth minerals—the kind of elements that make phones smarter, missiles faster, and billionaires happier. Naturally, Donnie’s interest has absolutely nothing to do with that. Absolutely nothing. Instead, we are told this latest excursion is about saving Christians. Because when history has taught us anything, it’s that nothing protects religious freedom quite like opportunistic intervention timed suspiciously well with supply-chain demand.

It’s a familiar script. First comes the sermon, then comes the spreadsheet. First comes the righteous concern, then the extraction plan. Donnie doesn’t invade countries; he audits them. He doesn’t destabilize regions; he unlocks value. And he doesn’t steal—he simply believes very strongly that if something exists and he wants it, ownership is implied.

The genius of Donnie the Kleptocrat is that he has managed to rebrand greed as patriotism. Wanting oil is framed as “energy independence.” Wanting minerals becomes “national security.” Wanting leverage is called “strength.” And if anyone questions the pattern, they are accused of hating freedom, Christianity, or America itself—sometimes all three before lunch.

Meanwhile, the Oval Office has become less a seat of government and more a pawn shop for global assets. Maps are no longer consulted for diplomacy but for inventory. Advisors whisper not about consequences but about market value. And the world watches as Donnie strides across continents like a man convinced the globe is just a poorly organized garage sale.

The most remarkable part isn’t the brazenness—it’s the predictability. Every stop on the tour comes with a costume: the Drug Warrior, the Savior of Christians, the Defender of Democracy. Different outfits, same pockets, all very deep. The kleptocrat never changes his destination; only his excuse.

So no, no one should be surprised. Not by Venezuela. Not by Nigeria. Not by whatever country comes next with lithium, cobalt, oil, or anything else that glitters beneath the soil. Donnie the Kleptocrat is not exploring the world—he’s browsing it. And as long as the world keeps insisting on having valuable things, he’ll keep insisting they were meant for him all along.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Once upon a more innocent political age—roughly ten tantrums ago—the Republic was brought to its knees by a tan suit.

Not a drone strike. Not a bank collapse. Not even Dijon mustard, though that too was treated as a gateway condiment. No, the Right collectively lost its grip on reality because Barack Obama had the audacity to wear beige while Black. Cable news panels trembled. Radio hosts clutched their pearls. Somewhere, an eagle wept. The Constitution, it was implied, had been dry-cleaned improperly.

This, we were told, was the beginning of the end.

Fast-forward a few years and the national outrage bar has been moved so far down the road it now requires a GPS, a Sherpa, and a waiver of basic moral standards to locate. The arc of insanity, we are assured, bends toward whatever Dear Leader is doing at the moment.

Joe Biden, meanwhile, was declared unfit because he occasionally misplaced a noun. He was “old,” “senile,” “confused.” Never mind that he could ride a bike, finish a sentence, and did not suggest injecting household cleaners into the bloodstream. Age, apparently, was disqualifying—until it wasn’t.

Because then came Donald.

And with him, the great recalibration.

Under the new system, forgetting names is proof of dementia—unless you forget entire decades, people, wars, or which office you’re currently running for, in which case it’s “genius-level improvisation.” Slurred, looping speeches are alarming—unless they last two hours and include sharks, batteries, Hannibal Lecter, and windmills, in which case they are “weaving.” Confusion is dangerous—unless it’s constant, public, and livestreamed, in which case it’s “authentic.”

The East Wing of the White House? Sure, why not. Tear it down. Build a ballroom. Nothing says “house of the people” like gold fixtures and a vibe best described as “regional casino wedding venue.” If another president had proposed this, it would have triggered emergency hearings and at least three segments titled Is This the End of America? But now? Now it’s just “thinking big.”

And when Donald blurts out things—boasts, jokes, insinuations—that would have ended any other political career instantly, the response is a collective shrug. “He’s just being Donald.” As though that is not precisely the problem. Any behavior that would once have been disqualifying is now rebranded as proof of strength. Accountability is for other people. Standards are socialism.

The same crowd that saw tyranny in a tan suit now sees patriotism in chaos. The same voices that screamed about decorum now chant “let him cook” as the kitchen catches fire. The same people who warned that norms mattered have discovered that norms are optional when power feels good.

And if you point out the contradictions—if you note that the man hailed as a demigod shows every visible sign of cognitive decline, impulse control issues, and an alarming comfort with authoritarian theatrics—you are told to relax. This is all part of the plan. He is saving the country. Trust the process. Ignore the smoke.

Never mind that the “saving” looks a lot like hurting: institutions weakened, allies alienated, cruelty normalized, corruption shrugged off as background noise. Never mind that the country is more divided, more cynical, and more exhausted than before. Pain, we are told, is patriotism.

The arc of the moral universe may bend toward justice, but the arc of political insanity bends wherever it damn well pleases—especially when dragged there by people who once lost their minds over beige fabric.

A tan suit was unforgivable.

Old age was disqualifying.

Tearing down norms, walls, and wings of the White House? Perfectly fine.

And that, apparently, is just what it is.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

2025 ended the way all great American eras do: with a Sharpie, a wrecking ball, and a promise that technically came true if you squint hard enough and abandon context. Donald, never one to confuse humility with leadership, decided that history simply wasn’t spelling his name loudly enough. So naturally, the Kennedy Center—once a place for art, culture, and people capable of sustained thought—received a tasteful rebrand. Nothing honors JFK’s legacy of public service quite like turning a national cultural institution into a vanity plaque.

Not content with renaming the arts, Donald turned his attention to the White House itself. The East Wing, that dull old symbol of governance, continuity, and public service, was torn down—not for something frivolous, mind you, but for a grand ballroom. Because nothing says House of the People like a gilded hall designed for chandeliers, donor dinners, and the occasional self-congratulatory slow clap. Democracy, after all, works best with marble floors and a dress code.

And looming just beyond the ballroom plans is the pièce de résistance: Donald’s proposed Triumphal Triangle Arch—which, we are assured, is absolutely not inspired by emperors. Any resemblance to Napoleon’s Arc de Triomphe, constructed during the Napoleonic Wars as a monument to conquest and ego, is purely coincidental. This is different. This arch celebrates… something else. Freedom. Strength. Ratings. Definitely not the subtle visual language of a man who sees himself as history’s misunderstood strongman.

Then there were the Epstein files. Remember those? The ones Donald swore—hand on heart, fingers crossed, truth social post pending—that he would release in the name of transparency. And he did. Technically. Page after page drenched in black ink, redacted to the point that future historians may classify them as minimalist poetry. Somewhere beneath the ink lie facts, but what we’re allowed to see boils down to two orphaned words floating in an abyss of censorship. Transparency, it turns out, means you can see the paper, just not the truth.

Now it’s 2026. The midterms hover on the horizon like an inconvenient reminder that elections still happen. Odds are the House will change hands, and the Senate might follow if voters remain stubbornly attached to consequences. Which gives the current Republican House and Senate about twelve months to do what they do best: legislate like a group that knows the clock is ticking and the receipts are coming.

Expect a mad dash of confirmations, deregulations, and ideological wish-list items jammed through under the banner of “the will of the people,” even as polling suggests the people are quietly Googling what did they just pass? It’s governance as a smash-and-grab, dressed up as patriotism.

And when the gavels finally change hands, today’s architects of excess will insist they were victims—of the media, of history, of time itself. They will say they were building legacies.

They were. Just not the kind you need a ballroom, a renamed theater, and an emperor’s arch to explain.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

The administration insists that Donald’s first year back in the White House will be remembered as the most transparent in history. And who are we to argue with transparency you can physically hold in your hand? There it is, thick and glossy, applied with a heavy Sharpie—America’s new official governing instrument—dragged lovingly across documents until entire paragraphs disappear like facts at a campaign rally.

This is not secrecy, we are told. This is curation. Transparency, but editorial. You see, the public doesn’t need to know everything—only the parts that survived the marker. The rest was clearly unimportant, dangerous, or insufficiently flattering. If sunlight is the best disinfectant, then Sharpie is sunscreen: SPF 10,000, protects delicate egos from harmful exposure to reality.

Donald promised a “year in review,” but what we got was a year in reductions. Budgets reduced. Regulations reduced. Truth reduced to bullet points that fit on a bumper sticker. Entire agencies learned that efficiency doesn’t mean doing things better—it means doing fewer things, preferably nothing at all, and calling it innovation. Government, streamlined to the point of invisibility.

Press briefings became performance art. Questions were answered with answers to different questions, preferably ones no one asked. Follow-ups were treated like hostile acts. Reporters learned quickly that curiosity was unpatriotic and context was optional. When documents were released, they arrived looking less like records and more like modern art: bold black lines intersecting white space, titled Freedom.

The administration explained that redactions were necessary for national security. Specifically, the security of Donald—from embarrassment, accountability, and occasionally verbs. Anything that suggested foresight, coordination, or responsibility was deemed classified. Anything that suggested someone else might deserve credit was immediately erased. Transparency does not mean letting the public see how the sausage is made; it means letting them admire the label.

And yet, we were constantly reassured that nothing improper was happening behind those black bars. “If there were something to hide,” the logic went, “you wouldn’t be seeing all these documents.” Which is like claiming honesty because you handed someone a diary with every sentence crossed out except I was right.

Executive orders flew fast and loose, often announced before the ink was dry or the consequences were considered. When outcomes didn’t match promises, the promises were quietly revised—or loudly denied. It turns out governing by instinct is much easier when instinct is never fact-checked.

By the end of the year, transparency had been fully redefined. It no longer meant clarity or openness. It meant repetition. Say something often enough, loudly enough, and with enough confidence, and eventually it becomes “clear.” If contradictions appeared, they were simply alternate truths, waiting their turn.

So here we are, one year in: a government that sees itself as an open book—provided you don’t mind that most of the pages are missing, the rest are blacked out, and the author keeps insisting it’s a bestseller. Transparency has never been so opaque. And apparently, that’s the point.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

We gather every year on the coldest edge of the calendar and declare, with straight faces and champagne breath, that this—this dark, hungover, leafless moment—is the beginning. January 1. The New Year. As if time itself looked at winter’s bleakest stretch and said, “Yes. This feels right. Let’s start here.”

But it didn’t always. In fact, it makes almost no sense at all.

For most of human history, the new year began in spring, which is to say, when things actually began. The earliest Roman calendar started the year in March, a month named for Mars, the god of war, agriculture, and general forward motion. Crops were planted, armies marched, days got longer, and life reasserted itself after winter’s long, gray hostage situation. Even our months still bear the fossil evidence of this older logic: September means seventh month, October eighth, November ninth, December tenth—names that only make sense if March was once month number one.

So how did we end up celebrating renewal in the dead of winter?

Blame politics. And bureaucracy. And a deep human need to impose order even when nature is screaming, “This is a terrible idea.”

In 153 BCE, the Romans moved the start of the year to January so newly elected consuls could take office earlier and get to war faster. Nothing says “fresh start” like military scheduling. January was named after Janus, the two-faced god of doors, gates, and transitions—one face looking back, one looking forward. Symbolically elegant, yes, but still happening in a month where most people were just trying not to freeze.

Then came Julius Caesar, who in 46 BCE introduced the Julian calendar, officially locking January 1 in as New Year’s Day. The empire stamped it, enforced it, and exported it like everything else Rome did. Centuries later, when Pope Gregory XIII tweaked the calendar again in 1582 to fix astronomical drift, January 1 survived the edit. By then, tradition had hardened into dogma. We may have lost the plot, but we kept the date.

Of course, not everyone immediately agreed. Medieval Europe experimented wildly—some regions celebrated the new year on March 25, others on Easter, others at Christmas. Chaos reigned. Accountants suffered. Eventually, January 1 won not because it made sense, but because everyone was tired of arguing.

And so here we are.

Every year we stand in the darkest month, when trees are bare, the ground is frozen, and sunlight feels like a rumor, and we announce resolutions about growth, transformation, and becoming our “best selves.” We expect motivation to bloom while nature itself is in survival mode. We tell ourselves we’re starting over while our bodies are begging for rest and carbohydrates.

It’s a little absurd. A little defiant. Almost impressive.

January 1 isn’t a natural beginning—it’s a human one. A line drawn in the snow by ancient administrators who needed order more than poetry. Spring still feels like the real new year, and maybe it always will. But January is when we practice hope anyway. When we say, despite the cold and the darkness, “Something new is coming. Not yet—but soon.”

So perhaps that’s why we chose it after all. Not because it’s logical, but because it’s hard. Because declaring a beginning in the bleakest month is an act of stubborn optimism. A collective refusal to let winter have the last word.

Or maybe it was just the Romans.

It’s usually the Romans.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

It is January 1, 2026, and my mind drifts—as it often does at the start of a new year—to that familiar Einstein quote about insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. It’s usually aimed at people who refuse to change, but today it feels uncomfortably close to a description of daily life itself. Because isn’t that exactly what we do?

We wake up. We put our shoes on. We move through the same rooms, the same streets, the same routines. We do the job we’re doing—whether it feeds our soul, drains it, or simply pays the bills—and somewhere in the background we quietly hope that something will be different this time. That the effort will finally add up to something more than survival. That tomorrow will feel lighter than yesterday.

But hope, when it’s placed inside repetition, becomes strange. It’s not loud or dramatic. It’s small and persistent, like a low-grade hum we’ve learned to live with. We tell ourselves this is just how life works: consistency, responsibility, endurance. We romanticize the grind because the alternative—admitting we’re tired of the wheel—feels dangerous. After all, stepping off the hamster wheel requires a leap, and leaps involve risk. Risk involves pain.

And yet staying on the wheel has its own cost. Pain is sharp; you feel it. Pleasure is obvious; you chase it. But numbness? Numbness is stealthy. It creeps in when the days blur together and even disappointment loses its sting. When you’re not exactly unhappy, but you’re not alive either. When “fine” becomes the most honest answer you have.

At what point does numb become the default setting? At what point do we stop measuring our lives by joy or sorrow and start measuring them by functionality? We’re not broken, we tell ourselves—we’re just tired. We’re not lost—we’re just busy. And maybe that’s true, for a while. But eventually, the routine stops being a tool and starts becoming a cage.

January 1 is supposed to be about fresh starts, but maybe the real question isn’t what we’re going to change—it’s whether we’re brave enough to notice that we’re stuck. Not stuck because we’re failing, but stuck because we’ve mastered endurance at the expense of intention. We’ve learned how to survive systems that were never designed to make us feel whole.

Maybe insanity isn’t repetition itself. Maybe it’s repetition without reflection. Doing the same thing because we’ve never stopped long enough to ask why. Maybe jumping off the hamster wheel doesn’t mean quitting everything or burning our lives down. Maybe it starts smaller—with awareness. With the uncomfortable honesty of admitting, “This isn’t enough anymore.”

As 2026 begins, I don’t have a resolution. I have a question. Am I living by habit, or by choice? And if numbness has become familiar, am I willing to feel again—even if that means discomfort, uncertainty, and change?

Because feeling something—pain, pleasure, fear, hope—might be the first real sign that we’ve stepped off the wheel, even if only for a moment.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

New Year’s Eve arrives every year wearing the same costume: glitter, countdowns, and a long list of promises we suddenly expect ourselves to keep forever. It is the one night when time feels negotiable, as if the simple act of flipping a calendar gives us the power to rewrite habits that took years—sometimes decades—to form. And so we make resolutions: bold, absolute declarations that sound good at midnight and feel heavy by January 10th. By February, many of them are forgotten, or at best remembered with a shrug and a joke about “starting again next year.”

The problem isn’t motivation. The problem is the word resolution itself. A resolution implies firmness, finality, and zero tolerance for failure. It suggests a clean break from the past: I will never do this again. I will always do that instead. But life is not a courtroom, and we are not on trial. Real change doesn’t happen through ultimatums; it happens through practice, patience, and repetition—often messy and imperfect. When a resolution slips, even once, it tends to collapse entirely. One missed workout becomes proof that the whole effort was pointless. One bad day becomes an excuse to abandon the year.

That’s why New Year’s Eve would serve us better if we replaced resolutions with intentions.

An intention is softer, but not weaker. It is grounded in good faith rather than rigid expectation. To say I intend to take better care of my body is different from saying I resolve to go to the gym every day. Intentions acknowledge reality: some days you will be tired, discouraged, overwhelmed, or human. They leave room for recalibration instead of self-punishment. An intention says, This is the direction I hope to move in, not This is the standard by which I will judge myself.

Intentions also honor process over performance. They focus less on dramatic transformation and more on alignment—on asking, How do I want to show up more often? You might intend to be more patient, more curious, more present. You might intend to waste less energy on things you can’t control or spend more time doing what actually nourishes you. These are not goals you “fail” in a single moment; they are orientations you return to again and again.

There’s also something deeply honest about intentions. They admit uncertainty. They accept that growth is nonlinear. They don’t pretend that January 1st magically erases old wiring. Instead, they respect the fact that change is cumulative, built in small decisions made on ordinary days—especially the days when motivation is low and no one is counting down for you.

So maybe this New Year’s Eve doesn’t need fireworks of self-reinvention. Maybe it just needs a quieter commitment: not a resolution carved in stone, but an intention held with care. You intend to try. You intend to learn. You intend to do better when you can and forgive yourself when you don’t. That may not sound as dramatic at midnight, but it has a far better chance of still being alive in March—and beyond.

In the end, intentions don’t demand perfection. They invite persistence. And that, more than any resolution, is what actually changes a life.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Here we are, standing proudly on the North American continent, gazing at our leadership trio like a geopolitical family portrait that accidentally hung itself in the Museum of Irony.

To the south, Mexico—long caricatured by American politicians who couldn’t find Oaxaca on a map—went ahead and elected a trained scientist, an administrator, a person who appears to believe in data, institutions, and the radical idea that government might actually do things. To the north, Canada continues its long tradition of electing prime ministers who at least pretend to read briefing books, speak in full sentences, and acknowledge that other countries exist without immediately threatening them with tariffs, walls, or caps-lock tweets.

And then there’s us. The United States. The self-declared “leader of the free world,” whose Oval Office is currently occupied by Dumb Donald—who, to be fair, is doing exactly what he promised. No bait-and-switch here. No surprise third act. No “who could have seen this coming?” twist. He told everyone who he was, loudly, repeatedly, and with merch.

By the standards set by our neighbors, the contrast is almost performance art. Mexico elects competence. Canada opts for stability with a side of manners. America says, “You know what we need right now? Vibes. Chaos. A guy who thinks governing is the same thing as winning a reality show challenge.” And then acts shocked when the prize turns out to be national whiplash.

It’s not that Dumb Donald failed to rise to the occasion. It’s that he mistook the occasion for a mirror. Every policy announcement feels less like governance and more like a loyalty test for gravity itself. Laws? Optional. Norms? Decorative. Expertise? Deep-state witchcraft. And yet, every time something breaks, we’re told this is actually strength, the way a toddler knocking over furniture is “asserting independence.”

Compared to Mexico’s technocratic seriousness and Canada’s polite, sweater-wearing pragmatism, the United States looks like the neighbor who insists fireworks are a form of diplomacy. We didn’t elect the best person—we elected the loudest promise that consequences were for other people. And now, shockingly, he’s keeping that promise too.

So yes, by the standard of who Mexico elected, who Canada trusts to run its government, and who currently sits behind the Resolute Desk, we absolutely have “the best people.” Best at disruption. Best at self-congratulation. Best at proving that when someone tells you exactly who they are and exactly what they plan to do—believe them.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Donald, the Lawbreaker-in-Chief, once bragged that he could shoot someone on Fifth Avenue and not lose a single vote. At the time, this sounded like the usual carnival-barker hyperbole—an offhand remark designed to shock, amuse, and remind everyone that normal rules simply did not apply to him. Years later, with a hand-picked Supreme Court nodding solemnly as the guardrails fall away, the joke appears to have been less metaphor and more mission statement.

The genius of the boast was not its crudeness, but its honesty. It was a thesis statement. Laws, norms, ethics—these were for other people. What followed has been a masterclass in consequence-free governance: subpoenas shrugged off like parking tickets, conflicts of interest waved away as fake news, and open contempt for legal accountability reframed as “strength.” When rules are enforced only against your enemies, law itself becomes just another branding exercise.

Since stepping back into the White House, Donald has treated legality like a buffet: sample what you like, ignore what you don’t, and complain loudly when anyone suggests there should be a bill at the end. Aligning himself with oligarchs and dictators has been less a foreign policy choice than a lifestyle preference. Why bother with messy democratic ideals when you can admire systems where loyalty matters more than law and power answers only to itself?

The truly remarkable feat is how all of this has been normalized. Each broken rule is defended as savvy. Each abuse of power is rebranded as disruption. The institutions meant to restrain a would-be strongman are told to calm down, stop overreacting, and remember that this is just how politics works now. After all, if the Supreme Court says the emperor’s clothes are legally invisible, who are we to argue?

Even if Democrats were to claw back the House and Senate, the question lingers like a bad smell in a marble hallway: how long does it take to repair damage that was done deliberately, proudly, and in broad daylight? Institutions can be rebuilt, but trust is slower. Norms, once shattered, don’t spring back—they have to be relearned, generation by generation, by people who grow up knowing what it looks like when power goes unchecked.

Donald’s Fifth Avenue comment was never really about violence. It was about impunity. And the most biting satire of all is that he didn’t need to test it. He already knew the answer.

Dwain Northey (Gen X)

Stress feels like one of humanity’s most successful inventions—right up there with deadlines, alarms, and the idea that everything must happen now. It isn’t a natural disaster or a force of gravity; it’s a story we tell ourselves about pressure, expectation, and consequence. And yet, despite being man-made, stress is painfully real in its effects. Our bodies don’t care that it was invented in boardrooms, calendars, or social hierarchies. They respond as if a predator is always nearby.

What began as an evolutionary response to actual danger—a sharpened awareness, a surge of energy to fight or flee—has quietly morphed into an equivalent response to imagined danger. Missed emails, unpaid bills, social judgments, future what-ifs: none of these can wound us physically in the moment, yet our nervous systems react as though they can. The same chemical cascade once reserved for survival now floods our bodies over thoughts alone.

What makes stress especially cruel is how differently we each interpret it. The same situation that sharpens one person into focus can paralyze another. A deadline can feel like motivation or a threat. Silence can be peace or panic. Stress has no universal language—only personal dialects shaped by memory, trauma, upbringing, and fear. So we walk around sharing the same world but carrying entirely different chemical storms inside our bodies.

Those storms matter. Stress quietly rewires us, flooding our systems with cortisol and adrenaline, throwing off sleep, digestion, mood, and clarity. It convinces the heart to race when nothing is chasing us and teaches the mind to rehearse disasters that may never come. Over time, it doesn’t just exhaust us—it erodes us, blurring the line between survival and living.

I often wish stress weren’t real, or at least that it came with an off switch. Imagine a world where urgency didn’t masquerade as importance, where rest wasn’t treated as weakness, and where being human didn’t require constant justification. Maybe stress once kept us alive, but in a world of imagined dangers and endless demands, it has outlived its purpose. And now we’re left trying to unlearn a fear that no longer serves us, hoping that one day we’ll remember how to breathe without bracing for impact.