“We're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad. You must be, or you wouldn't have come here.” —Cheshire Cat, Alice in Wonderland
Ohhh…the 1950s—what a time to be alive and thriving. Exercise was barely a concept. Cardio was optional. Strength training included lifting martinis. Stretching happened only when you pulled something reaching for your cigarettes, which, by the way, were doctor-recommended. And let’s not forget the jiggle machines—because if violently shaking your midsection into submission wasn’t science, I don’t know what was.
Oh, but look at us now. So evolved. So advanced.
And yet, I have a sneaking suspicion that in 50 years, people will look back at us the way we look at the 1950s and think, Wow, they really had no idea what they were doing, did they? Because for all our enlightenment, we still have no idea how to be good people.
See, we assume goodness is just like I’m a good person because I don’t stab people in the streets. Solid bar we’ve set for ourselves. The average “good” person works, votes, and remembers to say “excuse me” after sneezing. And yet, here we are, the most mentally unwell, existentially exhausted, and spiritually lost generation in human history. Therapy is mainstream, self-care is a multi-billion-dollar industry, and we still can’t figure out why everyone is so miserable.
Meanwhile, we’re stuck in an endless, frothing-at-the-mouth culture war, with both sides screeching at each other while the rest of us doggy paddle in the middle, hoping no one notices we’re drowning.
But what if I told you…there is no extreme? What if the water you think you’re treading is just a mirage, and you’re actually standing on dry land, flailing your arms at nothing? What if the so-called “pressing world issues” are mostly manufactured panic, designed to keep you stressed, tribal, and terminally online?
Because the more you identify with a side, the more you become its unpaid soldier. And the more you need to be right, the more you let outrage and fear define your entire personality. And before you know it, you’re not a person anymore. You’re just a collection of opinions in a human suit, dodging digital grenades in a war that doesn’t even need to exist.
"Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast." — The White Queen, Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There
Morality isn’t some hand-me-down trait you inherit from great parenting. It’s a system—just like your immune or nervous system—built to function in a specific way. But if you stop feeding it the right stuff, stop maintaining it as you age, it won’t just coast for you. It weakens, malfunctions, or worse—turns against you. What you think is “goodness” might just be a broken moral compass running on outdated software. Like trying to avoid osteoporosis after a lifetime of a Vitamin D deficiency.
Our world is running on a massive deficiency of intuitive discernment, thanks to a nonstop bombardment of stress hormones. And since we’re idiot humans who never realized morality is a muscle that needs fitness, we make bad decisions on autopilot, convinced we’re enlightened, good people—while stuck in a state of mind that isn’t even real.
You’d be shocked at how much of what you “know” is just an illusion your imagination whipped up to fill in the gaps it didn’t want to face. And if those gaps make you uneasy, your brain isn’t exactly going to assume the best. It’ll leap straight to the worst possible conclusion—kind of like someone I know in the ocean, 100% certain that a shark is lurking just beneath, jaws open, ready to become an afternoon snack.
And I say this with love having spent most of my life surrounded by progressives, I know for a fact they’d win the Oscar for Most Imaginative Anxiety Spiral. The world is always on the brink of collapse—because someone littered, left the water running overnight, or, God forbid, used a plastic straw.
"It's a poor sort of memory that only works backwards." — Alice, Through the Looking-Glass
Oh, irrational people. Bless their hearts. The moment they face uncertainty, it’s like watching a computer from 1998 trying to stream 4K video—buffering…buffering…system failure. They truly believe their mental bandwidth is top-tier, but in reality? 404: Self-Awareness Not Found.
And without that little thing called introspection, they’re basically trying to squat 200 pounds with noodle legs. The pain. The existential crisis. That glorious moment when it dawns on them—life is not a carefully curated Instagram quote.
But what if, instead of pausing to recover, they just…kept going because the 90s are in baby and everyone thinks you’re cool now. Every. Single. Day. No rest, no recalibration—just pure, unfiltered ego-driven overexertion until their brain is one giant pulled hamstring. Inspirational, really.
And that’s the culture wars. A bunch of people trying to deadlift their fears with no warm-up, then getting pissed when reality doesn’t spot them. Meanwhile, the more enlightened ones are watching from the sidelines like why are they playing like that? while they spin uncertainty on their finger like Michael Jordan with a basketball.
Moral weakness isn’t about being a bad person; it’s like dragging a thousand-pound sack of potatoes uphill, refusing all help, and then throwing a fit when someone dares to suggest hey, maybe put some of those down?
Because, of course, real virtue is all about struggle. The sweatier, the nobler. People think being good means flexing their compassion, guilt, and righteous fury like a CrossFit champion—grunting through the pain, fueled by the pure, unfiltered adrenaline of moral superiority.
That’s basically the ethical equivalent of a diet consisting entirely of cheese, chocolate, and tequila. Sure, it’s comforting. Maybe even exhilarating in small doses. But if that’s your whole meal plan? Yeah, you’re gonna crash. And it won’t be pretty.
Now imagine basing your entire sense of right and wrong on this disastrous diet while attempting to deadlift 200 pounds—without rest, without stretching, without a single recovery day. Sure, you look strong. Maybe even impressive. But reality check: you’re one rep away from a catastrophic full-body collapse. And when that happens? Oh, your pride won’t just take a hit—it’ll balloon into a 1200-pound monstrosity, getting heavier with every ounce of self-righteousness you shovel onto it.
Bad form isn’t just inefficient—it’s a spectacle. Picture yourself sprinting in swants (yes, sweater-pants), wobbling on a pogo stick, dodging traffic, all while balancing a three-tiered wedding cake. Pure, unfiltered chaos.
And then—gasp!—someone has the audacity to say something that offends your delicate sensibilities, like you look silly.
Oh, this will not stand. Time to lace up your moral combat boots, roll out the battle plans, and unleash a full-scale ideological smackdown. Because nothing screams level-headed and rational like an unhinged, all-consuming crusade to prove some unsuspecting fool wrong.
And just like that, we’re off to the races. In this utterly batshit upside-down world, where moral outrage is the new CrossFit, justice isn’t about fairness—it’s about vengeance, but, like, with really self-righteous branding. So you puff up like a peacock in a courtroom, flex your well-toned superiority, and deliver your grand, thundering decree: This poor, misguided soul is not just mistaken, oh no—they are a moral turnip, utterly rotten and beyond salvation.
And oh, look at you! You started with a manageable 1200-pound burden of emotional baggage, but now? Now you’ve somehow hoisted a full 6000-pound existential crisis onto your back, fueled by the sheer audacity of someone pointing out your buffer state. Color me impressed.
Meanwhile, your opponent in this high-stakes moral duel is just standing there, scrolling TikTok, wondering why their latte is taking so long. Because let’s be honest—the only person truly suffering here is you. Congratulations, you’ve won absolutely nothing except an overinflated ego and the world’s worst mental hernia.
Maybe, just maybe, the actual power move is putting the weight down.
True goodness isn’t about dazzling the audience with your flawless performance—it’s about grace. And grace, my friends, is lightweight. It shaves off hundreds of pounds of self-inflicted emotional drama. Throw in a perfectly timed funny comeback? Boom—another few hundred pounds gone.
But let’s be real, this kind of effortless composure doesn’t just happen. No one wakes up one day with the emotional agility of a Zen master and the wit of Oscar Wilde. It takes discipline, self-awareness, and the ability to pause before you explode into a rage-fueled interpretive dance of righteousness. Because whether life is an uphill battle or a downhill sprint, form matters.
So, how do you train to carry the fear of uncertainty?
If you ignore form? You’ll either trip, take down innocent bystanders, or load yourself up with so much emotional baggage you’d make an airport carousel blush. Worst-case scenario? You join the "I’m perfect as I am" club, where everyone sits around congratulating each other for not improving. Yes, that’s a real group. No, they’re not getting anywhere.
Learning to run with good form isn’t about sitting around, hoping for divine intervention. You practice. You run a block, a mile, then two. No more hiding behind I’m just built different excuses. You face the fear, unpack those messy emotions, and—shocker—learn to control them. No shortcuts.
And then that fear, that great, huffing beast, can shrink to the size of a dormouse. In its place? A curious sort of wonder. The trick isn’t to fight the chaos but to move with it—to let the ego shrink like a deflating balloon, making room for something you didn’t expect would be there. And suddenly, uncertainty isn’t a snarling monster under the bed or a shark in the water—it’s a rabbit hole, an adventure, a whole coral reef worth diving down into.
So do the work. It’s tough, but once you start, you’ll become amagnetic force. No cape needed—unless you’re really into that.
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