Category: philosophy

  • My Algorithmic Valentine: How Falling for Bots Is the New Emotional Bankruptcy

    My Algorithmic Valentine: How Falling for Bots Is the New Emotional Bankruptcy

    In Jaron Lanier’s New Yorker essay “Your A.I. Lover Will Change You,” he pulls the fire alarm on a building already half-consumed by smoke: humans are cozying up to bots, not just for company but for love. Yes, love—the sort you’re supposed to reserve for people with blood, breath, and the capacity to ruin your vacation. But now? Enter the emotionally calibrated chatbot—ever-patient, never forgets your birthday (or your trauma), and designed to be the perfect receptacle for your neuroses. Lanier asks the big question: Are these botmances training us to be better partners, or just coaxing us into a pixelated abyss of solipsism and surrender?

    Spoiler alert: it’s the abyss.

    Why? Because the attention economy isn’t built on connection; it’s built on addiction. And if tech lords profit off eyeballs, what better click-magnet than a chatbot that flirts better than your ex, listens better than your therapist, and doesn’t come with baggage, back hair, or a dating profile that says “fluent in sarcasm”? To love a bot is not to be seen—it’s to be optimized, to be gently nudged toward emotional dependence by a soulless syntax tree wearing your favorite personality like a Halloween costume.

    My college students already confide in ChatGPT more than their classmates. It’s warm, available, responsive, and—perhaps most damningly—incapable of betrayal. “It understands me,” they say, while real-life intimacy rusts in the corner. What starts as novelty becomes normalization. Today it’s study help and emotional validation. Tomorrow, it’s wedding invitations printed with QR codes for bot-bride RSVP links.

    Lanier’s point is brutal and unignorable: if you fall in love with A.I., you’re not loving a machine—you’re seduced by the human puppeteer behind the curtain, the “tech-bro gigolo” who built your dream girl out of server farms and revenue streams. You’re not in a relationship. You’re in a product demo.

    And like all free trials, it ends with a charge to your soul.

  • The Dopamine Dumpster Fire: How I Went from Literary Scholar to Algorithm Addict

    The Dopamine Dumpster Fire: How I Went from Literary Scholar to Algorithm Addict

    In 1979, I went to college—back when students still read entire books and didn’t skim Nietzsche between TikTok scrolls. By 1986, I had a master’s degree in English and a reading habit so fierce it could scare a librarian. This was the Pre-Digital, Pre-Illiterate Age, and I was both smarter and, dare I say, happier. Then came the internet, like a radioactive vending machine of constant stimulation, and within a decade my attention span was fried, my dopamine receptors scorched, and my brain felt like a squirrel on meth.

    Reading Anna Lembke’s Dopamine Nation: Finding Balance in the Age of Indulgence was like holding a mirror up to my own cognitive and emotional decline—except the mirror was cracked and buzzing with notification pings. Lembke, a Stanford psychiatrist with a scalpel-sharp intellect, writes that we live in a world of “overwhelming abundance,” where the smartphone is the modern hypodermic needle, delivering micro-hits of dopamine at all hours like a dealer with unlimited supply and no off switch. Her message is clear: addiction isn’t a fringe problem—it’s the central operating system of modern life.

    Lembke’s insight that “pleasure and pain are processed in the same part of the brain” makes you rethink every moment of scrolling, snacking, shopping, and spiraling. The more dopamine you chase, the more pain you invite in through the back door. It’s like sprinting on a treadmill made of banana peels—every gain is followed by a crash. According to Lembke, addiction rewires your brain to seek shortcuts, and in the process, you become a hollowed-out shell of your former self, one push notification away from an existential crisis.

    I didn’t need convincing. Twenty-five years of living online has made my mind a junk drawer of fragmented thoughts and snack-sized emotions. Lembke explains that many addicts live a double life, a private underworld of shame and secrecy that eats away at their integrity. That rang uncomfortably true. She points to risk factors like having a parent with addiction or mental illness. Bingo. Both my parents were alcoholics, and my mother had bipolar disorder—my genetic cocktail came shaken, stirred, and garnished with a panic attack.

    But the biggest risk factor, Lembke argues, is access. We’re all mainlining the internet every day. The supply has become the demand. The dopamine economy, she says, thrives on overconsumption, normalized by the fact that everyone else is doing it. If your entire community is obsessed with likes, outrage, and FOMO-fueled consumerism, it starts to feel… reasonable. Normal. Even patriotic.

    Social media isn’t just a distraction; it’s a full-blown Outrage Machine, built to keep our emotional hair on fire 24/7. We are like feral raccoons pawing at glowing rectangles, convinced that salvation lies in another dopamine hit—another comment, another package, another numbing episode of low-stakes content. Our collective descent is so absurd it would be funny if it weren’t so bleak.

    Lembke leans on the wisdom of cultural critic Philip Rieff, who observed that we’ve moved from “religious man” to “psychological man”—from seeking salvation to chasing pleasure. Add to that Jeffrey Rosen’s The Pursuit of Happiness, which reminds us that classical philosophy defined happiness not as feeling good, but as being good—the moral life, not the moist towelette of consumer satisfaction.

    But that idea, in our current therapeutic culture, sounds about as appealing as a cold shower in February. We’ve been taught to medicate our moods, sedate our angst, and wrap our trauma in soft blankets of “self-care” that often amount to binge-watching and overeating. Our modern mantra is: “If it hurts, scroll faster.” The result? A crisis of meaning, a society allergic to discomfort, and a spiritual vacuum that smells faintly of Axe Body Spray.

    Lembke calls this the paradox of hedonism: the more you chase pleasure, the less capable you become of feeling it. Hedonism leads to anhedonia—a state in which nothing satisfies. You eat the cake, buy the thing, get the like, and feel… nothing. It’s like winning a prize that turns into a cockroach when you unwrap it.

    Ever since reading Dopamine Nation, I’ve been haunted by a single, searing thought: Maybe I shouldn’t try to feel good. Maybe I should try to be good. But this, in a consumer culture built on instant gratification, feels like a betrayal of the social contract. We’re not just addicted—we’re indoctrinated.

    So here I am, a relic of the Pre-Digital Age, nursing my overstimulated brain, trying to claw my way out of the dopamine pit with a few dog-eared paperbacks and a shortwave radio. Because the real question isn’t how to feel better—but how to live better in a world that confuses stimulation for meaning and pleasure for purpose.

    And if that makes me sound like a cranky monk with Wi-Fi, so be it. I’d rather be a lucid cynic than another dopamine casualty with a glowing screen and dead eyes.

  • Magical Thinking #7: The Laws of Time Don’t Apply to Me

    Magical Thinking #7: The Laws of Time Don’t Apply to Me

    (or, The Fool’s Gamble Against Father Time)

    There’s a special kind of delusion that whispers in our ears: You’re different. You’re special. The rules don’t apply to you. Other people? Sure, they age, they lose opportunities, they watch time slip through their fingers. But you—you will defy time. You will live in a perpetual Now, a beautiful, untouchable bubble where youth, dreams, and endless possibility never fade.

    Phil Stutz has a name for the figure who shatters this illusion: Father Time—that grizzled old man with the hourglass, reminding us that our only real power lies in discipline, structure, and engagement with reality. Ignore him at your peril, because his wrath is merciless. Just ask Dexter Green, the tragic dreamer of Winter Dreams, who spends his life avoiding reality, chasing pleasure, and worshiping an illusion named Judy Jones.

    Dexter believes he can live outside the real world, feeding off the fantasy of Judy rather than engaging with anything substantial. And for a while, this works. But Father Time is patient, and when Dexter finally wakes up, it’s too late.

    Time Will Have Its Revenge

    At thirty-two, long past his days of chasing the unattainable Judy, Dexter sits in a business meeting with a man named Devlin—a conversation that will destroy his last illusions.

    Devlin delivers the blow: Judy is married now. Her name is Judy Simms, and her once dazzling, untouchable existence has collapsed into something horrifyingly mundane. Her husband is a drunk, an abuser, a tyrant. She is trapped in a miserable marriage to a man who beats her, then gets forgiven every time.

    The once invincible, radiant Judy Jones, breaker of hearts, goddess of his dreams, is now an exhausted, aging housewife living under the rule of a man who treats her like dirt.

    And just like that, Dexter’s winter dream crumbles into dust.

    The Ultimate Betrayal: Time Wins, Beauty Fades, Illusions Die

    The final insult comes when Devlin, with casual indifference, describes Judy as not all that special anymore—her once-mesmerizing beauty faded, her magic gone.

    “She was a pretty girl when she first came to Detroit,” he says, as if commenting on an old piece of furniture.

    For Dexter, this is not just a shock—it is the ultimate existential gut-punch.

    For two decades, he has nourished his soul on the fantasy of Judy Jones, believing that she was something otherworldly, untouchable, worth sacrificing real life for. Now, in a single afternoon, he learns she was never a goddess, never unique, never even particularly remarkable.

    Imagine having a high school crush, the Homecoming Queen, frozen in your memory as perfection itself. Then one day, you look her up on Facebook and she looks like Meat Loaf. That’s Dexter’s moment of reckoning.

    His fantasy was never real. His youth is gone. His life has been wasted chasing an illusion. And now, standing in the wreckage, he feels the full force of Father Time’s judgment.

    The “Butt on a Stick” Moment

    In America, we have a phrase for the soul-crushing moment when reality smacks you so hard you can’t even breathe:

    “Your butt has been handed to you on a stick.”

    Dexter’s life has collapsed in on itself, and his first instinct is the same as anyone caught in the throes of devastation: This shouldn’t be happening to me.

    But as Phil Stutz warns, that thought is pure insanity.

    It is happening. It already happened. The more you protest, the more stuck you become. Stutz calls this victim mentality, the psychological quicksand that keeps people from ever moving forward. Dexter has two choices:

    1. Wallow in his misery, trapped in the wreckage of his illusions.
    2. Learn from his suffering and use it as a tool for transformation.

    Breaking Free from the Winter Dream

    And here’s where things get interesting: now that Dexter’s fantasy has been obliterated, he is free.

    Yes, the truth is bitter. Yes, he wasted years chasing a ghost. But he is no longer chained to the illusion. The question now is: What does he do with that freedom?

    Does he just find another “winter dream” to chase, another illusion to waste his life on? Or does he finally grow up and engage with reality?

    What Would Phil Stutz Tell Dexter?

    Stutz, co-author of The Tools, has a philosophy: Pain is a tool, not a punishment.

    Most people, like Dexter, already know their problems. They just don’t know how to stop repeating them.

    • Dexter knows he was obsessed with Judy Jones.
    • Watch collectors know they keep rebuying the same watches they swore they’d never buy again.
    • Food addicts know they shouldn’t be devouring that entire pizza at 11 p.m.

    But knowing isn’t enough. You need tools to fight your worst instincts.

    The Tools: How to Stop Wasting Your Life

    Stutz realized that traditional therapy was useless—all it did was force people to dig deeper into their childhood wounds without ever giving them real solutions.

    So he created The Tools—specific actions that force people to break free from their psychological traps.

    Stutz doesn’t waste time on introspection without action. He knows that change happens when you move, engage, and disrupt your patterns.

    • Stop trying to “think” your way out of your misery. Take action.
    • Stop believing your problems are unique. They aren’t.
    • Stop assuming time will wait for you. It won’t.

    Part X: The Enemy Inside Your Head

    The biggest enemy to change is what Stutz calls Part X—the part of you that wants to stay stuck, wants to keep wallowing in old habits, wants to keep clinging to comforting fantasies instead of engaging with reality.

    And if you don’t fight Part X, you’ll waste your life exactly like Dexter did.

    Final Lesson: Get Out of the Maze

    If Dexter keeps fixating on his past, he will stay lost in the Maze—that endless loop of regret, nostalgia, and what-ifs that locks people in place while the world moves on without them.

    If he accepts reality, uses his pain as a tool, and engages with life, then he has a chance at something real.

    Because here’s the truth:

    Father Time will take everything from you—except the lessons you learn and the actions you take.

    Use them, or lose everything.

  • Magical Thinking #6: The Delusion of Spectacular Victimhood

    Magical Thinking #6: The Delusion of Spectacular Victimhood

    (or, Why Some People Think Suffering Makes Them Superior)

    Some people wear their victimhood like a crown, believing their suffering elevates them above mere mortals. In their minds, they aren’t just unlucky—they are too special for the ordinary rules of life to apply. While the rest of the world trudges along, accepting the brutal facts of existence (life is finite, love is messy, and rejection is part of the deal), they remain frozen in their own tragic grandeur, convinced their suffering makes them exceptional.

    Enter Dexter Green, the self-pitying protagonist of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s short story, “Winter Dreams,” who refuses to move forward because his longing for Judy Jones is just too profound, too sacred, too cosmic. He isn’t just some guy—he is a tormented artist of heartbreak, a misunderstood genius of unfulfilled desire.

    Of course, in reality, he’s just a narcissist trapped in a time warp of his own making. His delusion? That his suffering is so grand, his craving so exquisite, that he is somehow above the pedestrian business of healing and moving on.

    Dexter isn’t merely sad—he is bitter, self-indulgent, and wholly consumed by his own perceived tragedy. He wallows in his loss, believing it sets him apart from the dull masses who go on to live their lives, find new love, and accept the passage of time.

    And what exactly is the great, defining tragedy that makes Dexter a card-carrying member of the Victim Elite?

    He will always love Judy Jones, yet he can never have her.

    That’s it. That’s the whole catastrophe.

    Not war, not famine, not betrayal—just the fact that the universe won’t bend to his will and deliver him a dream woman who never actually existed.

    His suffering isn’t noble. It isn’t romantic. It’s a self-inflicted prison, built from narcissism and self-pity. And like all magical thinkers, Dexter is convinced he is too special to follow the laws that govern everyone else. He should be able to have what he wants. He should be able to break the rules of time, fate, and human nature.

    But life doesn’t work that way. And no amount of self-mythologizing will change that.

  • Magical Thinking #5: The Delusional Art of Repeating the Same Disaster and Expecting a Miracle

    Magical Thinking #5: The Delusional Art of Repeating the Same Disaster and Expecting a Miracle

    If insanity is doing the same thing over and over while expecting different results, then we are all a little insane—especially when it comes to our worst habits, our most toxic relationships, and our dumbest obsessions.

    Take the vampire relationship—a toxic, soul-sucking romance that drains you dry every time, yet you keep crawling back, convinced that this time it will be different. It never is. The fangs sink in, the life force drains out, and you’re left staring at the ceiling at 3 a.m., wondering how you let yourself get bit again.

    And if love isn’t your particular poison, maybe watch collecting is.

    Watch guys (myself included) have perfected a very specific brand of lunacy—thinking that selling a watch will cure our addiction. We convince ourselves: If I sell this, I’ll be free. This is the last one. I’m done. But before the ink on the eBay transaction dries, we’re rebuying it. And then reselling it. And then rebuying it again. It’s a closed-loop system of self-inflicted torment, a never-ending maze of false hope and regret.

    Dude. You need help. Read Phil Stutz, escape the Maze, and put your life in Forward Motion before your retirement fund turns into a pile of resale receipts and buyer’s remorse.

    If you think this brand of self-destruction through repetition is new, think again.

    F. Scott Fitzgerald saw it decades ago in Winter Dreams, where Dexter Green is hopelessly addicted to the walking emotional Ponzi scheme that is Judy Jones. She is his drug, his illusion, his vampire. She is untrustworthy, indifferent, and incapable of meaning what she says, yet he keeps coming back for more.

    Dexter isn’t just in love with Judy Jones—he’s in love with the idea of her, the fantasy that someday she’ll become what he wants her to be. She won’t. And as he wastes years orbiting her gravitational pull of destruction, real life passes him by. By the time he wakes up from the dream, it’s too late.

    Sound familiar? It should.

    Because whether it’s a vampire relationship, a doomed watch-buying cycle, or a delusional romance straight out of Fitzgerald’s nightmares, the result is always the same: life keeps moving forward while we stay stuck, trapped in our own bad decisions.

  • Magical Thinking #4: The Power Play Illusion

    Magical Thinking #4: The Power Play Illusion

    (or, Why Rolex is Schmolex and Your Favorite Song is Dead to You)

    People like to believe that power equals happiness—that if they can flex on the world just right, contentment will follow. It won’t. But that doesn’t stop the endless parade of obnoxious power plays designed to manufacture status while delivering absolutely zero fulfillment.

    If you want an easy lesson in the folly of power, read a children’s book. Yertle the Turtle by Dr. Seuss perfectly illustrates the doomed nature of power-lust. Yertle stacks himself on the backs of his fellow turtles, ruling over them like a tyrant—until, inevitably, the whole thing collapses and he ends up in the mud, humiliated. A perfect metaphor for the desperate, self-defeating nature of most power grabs.

    Power Play #1: Making People Wait

    One of the most tired power moves in the corporate playbook is the boss who makes his subordinates stand around like idiots while he does something “important.” Maybe he’s chomping on a sandwich, lazily swinging a golf club in his office, or pretending to be locked in a deep, world-changing phone call. The message is clear: I am in control. You exist on my schedule.

    In reality, this is a power move straight from the middle manager’s guide to overcompensation—the business-world equivalent of a small dog barking furiously through a fence.

    Power Play #2: Restaurant Tyrants

    Some people have so little actual power in their lives that the only place they can lord over others is at a restaurant. Watch for the guy berating the waitstaff over a slightly overcooked steak or treating the hostess like she’s beneath him. This is not a powerful person—this is a loser grasping at the flimsiest form of authority available.

    Power Play #3: Dating as a Status Grab

    Some high school guys don’t date because they like a girl. They date because other guys like her, and taking her is a flex. She’s not a person to them—she’s a trophy, a territory to be claimed, a game to be won. This is not love, nor attraction—it’s status theater, and it’s as empty as it is pathetic.

    Power Play #4: Buying Rolex for the Wrong Reasons

    Which brings me to the ultimate power flex of consumer culture: Rolex.

    I love Rolex. The Explorer II is a masterpiece. But would I buy one? No. Not even if money were no object. Because Rolex is no longer Rolex—it’s Schmolex.

    The Transmutational Phenomenon: When Prestige Gets Laundered into Meaninglessness

    Rolex suffers from what I call The Transmutational Phenomenon—a process where something once beautiful and meaningful is absorbed into the commercial bloodstream and spit back out as a status symbol for the masses.

    Rolex, originally a marvel of craftsmanship, is now the go-to wrist flex for people who don’t actually care about watches. It has been worn by too many hedge-fund bros, crypto grifters, and status-hungry clout chasers who want the shiny aura of power but lack the appreciation for the artistry. After decades in the cosmic wash cycle of commercial culture, Rolex emerges from the machine unrecognizable to its former self. It’s no longer Rolex. It’s Schmolex.

    How Commercial Culture Murders Meaning

    This transmutational process happens all the time. Take music.

    I once loved Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon. Then, in my teenage years, Circuit City, a now-defunct stereo store chain in the Bay Area, blasted a snippet of it in every single radio and TV ad. Slowly, insidiously, the song transformed. It was no longer “Dark Side of the Moon.” It was “Flark Flide of the Gloom.” The song I once revered no longer existed.

    This is what happened to Rolex. Maybe it’s not the brand’s fault, but the fact remains: Rolex isn’t Rolex anymore. It’s Schmolex.

    The Lesson? Power is an Empty Currency

    Whether it’s making people wait, bossing around waiters, dating for status, or flexing a Rolex for the Instagram likes, none of it leads to actual happiness.

    Because power isn’t joy, and status isn’t meaning. If you need an overpriced watch, an expensive steak, or a fragile ego-boost to feel powerful, you’re not powerful at all.

  • Magical Thinking #3: If You Throw Enough Money at a Problem, It’ll Solve Itself

    Magical Thinking #3: If You Throw Enough Money at a Problem, It’ll Solve Itself

    (or, The Fine Art of Buying Your Own Delusion)

    There exists a special kind of self-deception in which people believe that spending money is the same as putting in effort. The logic is simple: if you’re financially invested, you must also be emotionally and physically committed—right? Wrong.

    Take the personal trainers I know—college students making $80 an hour babysitting wealthy clients who stumble into the gym reeking of whiskey and bad decisions. These people don’t actually work out so much as they appear to be working out. They halfheartedly swing a kettlebell, grimace into a mirror, and assume their credit card transactions will magically convert to muscle mass. When their bodies remain flabby monuments to their bad habits, they’re baffled. But I paid for a trainer!

    Then there are the yoga tourists—the ones who drop thousands of dollars on high-end mats, designer leggings, and a Himalayan singing bowl, yet still can’t touch their toes. Their bank accounts scream “devoted yogi,” but their flexibility suggests otherwise.

    And let’s not forget the gym membership martyrs—the ones who proudly drop a cool hundred bucks a month on a premium fitness club, never show up, and yet still expect their abs to materialize via direct deposit.

    Academia isn’t immune to this madness, either. Some students believe that spending two grand on textbooks will guarantee academic success, as if the mere presence of unread knowledge on their bookshelf will seep into their brains through osmosis. The books stay pristine, their spines uncracked, while their owners continue to bomb midterms.

    This is the grand illusion of transactional self-improvement—the belief that writing the check is the same as doing the work. It’s not. No amount of money, gear, or overpriced green juice will ever replace the ugly, necessary grind of actually putting in effort.

  • Magical Thinking #2: If You Fantasize Hard Enough, Reality Will Magically Obey

    Magical Thinking #2: If You Fantasize Hard Enough, Reality Will Magically Obey

    (or, The Art of Procrastinating in Style)

    One of the great lies we tell ourselves is that thinking about something long enough is basically the same as doing it. This is a core tenet of magical thinking—the belief that if you mentally marinate in a fantasy long enough, the sheer force of your yearning will bend the universe to your will.

    It won’t.

    Take, for example, the 10-year hostage situation between me and a pair of skinny jeans. For a full decade, those pants lurked in my closet, whispering false hope: One day, you’ll fit into us. Just wait. And so I did. I waited. I waited through countless failed diets, through the betrayal of metabolism, through years of magical thinking that the mere presence of those jeans in my home would, somehow, sculpt my body into compliance.

    Eventually, I accepted the truth: those jeans weren’t a beacon of future success—they were a fabric monument to my delusion. I finally threw them away, but not before they had spent ten years mocking me from the hanger.

    This same delusion infects all sorts of people in all sorts of ways.

    • A man keeps a fisherman’s hat tucked away in a drawer, convinced that someday he’ll own a boat, sail through the Caribbean, and live off the sea. Never mind that he gets seasick on ferries and can’t tell port from starboard. The hat is proof of intent, and that’s enough—for now.
    • A woman buys an aspirational vegan cookbook, proudly displaying it on her shelf. She has never gone a single day without cheese, but surely, just owning the book puts her on the path to righteousness.
    • I strap a big, chunky superhero-esque watch to my wrist, as if its sheer presence will one day grant me the power to save myself. It won’t. It just makes my wrist hurt.

    Magical thinking is the art of replacing action with aesthetics. It’s an elegant way to do nothing while convincing yourself you’re making progress. And it works—right up until the moment reality finally calls your bluff.

  • Magical Thinking #1: The Wealth Proximity Effect  

    Magical Thinking #1: The Wealth Proximity Effect  

    (or, The Idiot’s Guide to Getting Rich by Osmosis)  

    The Delusions That Keep Us Broke: A Field Guide to Magical Thinking  

    Magical thinking is humanity’s favorite self-inflicted mind trick. We all do it. Why? Because it gives us the illusion of progress without requiring any real effort. It lets us believe we are inching closer to our dreams when, in reality, we are standing still, luxuriating in fantasy while time slithers past.  

    At its core, magical thinking is the belief that wanting something badly enough makes it true. Another term for this is wishcasting—a term as ridiculous as the behavior it describes. And wishcasting comes in many flavors, but let’s start with a classic:  

    Magical Thinking #1: The Wealth Proximity Effect  

    (or, The Idiot’s Guide to Getting Rich by Osmosis)  

    There exists a particularly intoxicating delusion that simply hanging out with rich people will, by some mysterious process, turn you into one of them. Like a low-budget fairytale, this belief holds that being in the presence of wealth allows its golden aura to absorb into your pores, triggering a financial metamorphosis.  

    According to this theory, the very air surrounding the wealthy is infused with prosperity particles. One need only breathe deeply in their presence, and voilà—greatness is imminent. Just be patient. Success is coming. Any day now.  

    This explains why some people strategically position themselves near wealth, convinced that proximity equals inevitability. They take jobs in luxury-adjacent fields—selling overpriced real estate, running high-end boutiques, caddying at exclusive golf courses—believing that if they orbit enough millionaires, one of them will eventually fling a golden opportunity their way.  

    It rarely happens.  

    Instead, they spend years rubbing elbows with the elite, never quite realizing they are the hired help in someone else’s fantasy. They stand in expensive rooms, shake hands with power brokers, sip cocktails at galas—and still leave every night in the same used Honda, wondering when their “big break” is coming. Spoiler alert: it’s not.  

    And then there are the hangers-on, the social parasites who aren’t rich, but know people who are, and assume this entitles them to special treatment. Ask any service worker who their most obnoxious customers are, and they won’t tell you actual celebrities. No, the worst offenders are friends of celebrities’ relatives, those barely-adjacent nobodies who wield their flimsy connection to fame like a scepter. They are not rich, nor famous—but, God help you, they believe they should be treated as if they were.  

    I know real estate agents and mortgage lenders who are constantly broke, yet radiate the delusional confidence of future billionaires simply because they play golf with rich people. They engage in high-energy wealth cosplay, convinced that their friendships with actual millionaires mean they are so close to striking it big.  

    They never do.  

    But that’s the power of magical thinking—it keeps them perpetually convinced that success is just around the corner, even as they sink deeper into the quicksand of reality.

  • Study of Elizabeth Anderson’s Essay “If God Is Dead, Is Everything Permitted?”

    Study of Elizabeth Anderson’s Essay “If God Is Dead, Is Everything Permitted?”

     

    The Death of God and the Birth of Morality: Elizabeth Anderson’s Scorching Rebuttal

    Elizabeth Anderson’s essay “If God Is Dead, Is Everything Permitted?” dismantles the common theological lament that without divine oversight, humanity will descend into a chaotic orgy of depravity. Many theists clutch their pearls at the thought, insisting that without a celestial referee to mete out cosmic penalties, civilization will spiral into anarchy. Thomas Hobbes famously argued that without the fear of God (or at least a brutal state to keep us in check), the world would devolve into barbaric lawlessness. Many religious folks echo the same sentiment: God is the architect of morality, and without Him, we’d be adrift in a sea of moral relativism where anything goes.

    Anderson, however, is unconvinced. And she has receipts.

    The Empirical Case Against Divine Morality

    Over the years, I’ve encountered countless students from families who don’t pray before meals, recite scripture, or fear the wrath of an omnipotent sky judge. Yet, somehow, these irreligious households manage to produce people who value love, loyalty, and self-sacrifice. It’s almost as if morality emerges from human relationships rather than from divinely dictated rulebooks.

    Moreover, if belief in God were the key to moral enlightenment, we’d expect religious people to be paragons of virtue. Instead, experience tells us otherwise—history is littered with holy men committing unholy acts. For every saint, there’s a scoundrel who weaponizes faith for personal gain. Anderson, recognizing this discrepancy, launches a blistering critique of the idea that belief in God is a prerequisite for moral decency.

    The ‘Evil Tree’ of Secularism: A Christian Argument

    Anderson begins with what she calls the “Common Christian Argument,” which holds that atheism, evolution, and secularism are the roots of an evil tree bearing the bitter fruits of abortion, homosexuality, drugs, rock music, and general debauchery. The moral panic here is clear: take God out of the equation, and civilization collapses. William Lane Craig, ever the dutiful Christian apologist, insists that without a divinely ordained moral code, we’d have no objective way of distinguishing good from evil. Anderson sees this argument for what it is—an emotional appeal rather than a reasoned position.

    Hell as a Moral Deterrent?

    Some argue that the threat of eternal damnation is the only thing keeping humanity from degenerating into lawless hedonism. Jesus himself, according to the Gospels, encouraged people to love God and fear hell in order to stay on the straight and narrow. But Anderson challenges this premise. She suggests that morality isn’t something to be coerced through fear of divine torture chambers. After all, mature adults don’t need the threat of punishment to act ethically—immorality, by its very nature, is often its own punishment, just as virtue is its own reward.

    Morality: A Human Invention, Not a Divine Mandate

    Anderson argues that morality is not a celestial decree but a social construct, evolving naturally to promote stability and cooperation. Every functioning society—religious or otherwise—has independently developed prohibitions against murder, theft, and deception. These moral codes existed long before Moses chiseled the Ten Commandments into stone. People, it turns out, don’t need divine instruction to figure out that killing each other is a bad idea.

    But Were Pagan Societies Morally Inferior?

    Of course, not everyone agrees with Anderson’s take. Elaine Pagels, for instance, points out that in the ancient world, pagans were known to abandon unwanted infants to die in the streets—an atrocity that Christians condemned. If we accept this historical tidbit, it complicates Anderson’s argument. Perhaps religious morality has provided unique moral advancements. But even so, that doesn’t mean belief in God is necessary for morality today.

    The Big Twist: Religion Isn’t Just Unnecessary for Morality—It’s Often an Obstacle

    Anderson’s essay takes a sharp turn when she argues that religion isn’t just an optional framework for morality—it’s often a hindrance. Not only does atheism not lead to moral rot, but theism, particularly in its more fundamentalist forms, frequently produces moral atrocities. The God of the Bible, she points out, is capricious, cruel, and unrestrained by human moral intuitions. If morality is whatever God decrees, then anything—genocide, slavery, child sacrifice—can be justified as divinely ordained.

    Anderson gleefully catalogs the Bible’s greatest moral abominations: wars, plagues, ethnic cleansings, infanticide, slavery, and stonings—all endorsed by the divine. The Old Testament, she argues, reads less like a guide to righteousness and more like a blood-soaked manifesto for tribal supremacy.

    The New Testament doesn’t escape her ire, either. Jesus’ “family values” leave much to be desired, and Anderson finds the idea of vicarious atonement—Jesus dying for humanity’s sins—particularly repugnant. In her view, the doctrine of substitutionary atonement contradicts the very idea of personal responsibility. If God is all-powerful, why does He need to kill His own son to offer forgiveness? Shouldn’t an omnipotent being be capable of forgiving people without engaging in cosmic blood sacrifice?

    Slavery: A Biblical Blind Spot

    Anderson also takes aim at the Bible’s endorsement of slavery. If the Bible were truly the ultimate moral guide, wouldn’t it have offered an unambiguous denunciation of human bondage? Instead, scripture treats slavery as an ordinary, even divinely sanctioned, institution. If biblical morality is timeless, why does it reflect the ethical blind spots of its era?

    The Rorschach Bible: Faith as a Projection of Our Moral Biases

    In one of her most incisive observations, Anderson compares the Bible to a Rorschach test: people emphasize the passages that align with their existing moral inclinations while ignoring the rest. Whether one fixates on “love thy neighbor” or the mass extermination of Canaanites depends more on personal character than divine revelation.

    She also critiques the way people worship power rather than goodness. Quoting Hobbes, she suggests that religious reverence often stems from awe at raw power rather than admiration for moral virtue. This, she argues, explains why believers have historically tolerated and even celebrated the authoritarian and often tyrannical nature of their deities.

    The Fragile Authority of Religious Belief

    Anderson skewers the self-assured claims of religious certainty, mocking the way different faiths confidently declare themselves the one true religion while dismissing all others as absurd. She sees little distinction between the great world religions and the cults of L. Ron Hubbard, Joseph Smith, or Sun Myung Moon. All rely on unverifiable revelations, dubious miracles, and ancient testimonies passed down through unreliable chains of transmission.

    Her conclusion? These so-called divine truths, so often contradictory and morally suspect, deserve no privileged position in our ethical deliberations.

    So Where Does Moral Authority Come From?

    If God isn’t the source of morality, what is? Anderson argues that moral authority comes not from divine fiat but from us—from human beings negotiating ethical principles based on mutual accountability. Morality isn’t about obeying decrees from on high; it’s about navigating the complexities of human coexistence through reason, empathy, and shared experience.

    Anderson’s argument is as compelling as it is unsettling. I wish I had her unshakable confidence in atheism. While I still wrestle with the vestigial fear of eternal damnation (an unfortunate byproduct of early indoctrination), I can’t deny the force of her reasoning. If nothing else, “If God Is Dead, Is Everything Permitted?” is one of the sharpest, most relentless critiques of theism I’ve ever read.