Fuck Politics

How I stopped caring about the world and started building one worth living in.

The first thing I saw at Jorge’s on Saturday night was a fat girl in a crop top that said HAVE AN ABORTION EVERY DAY.

She was ugly.

Of course she was. They always are.

The pretty ones are too busy getting dicked into a coma by men like me to make politics their whole personality.

This girl looks like God started sculpting her face and then got a phone call and He just never came back to finish.

Fat as a whale who learned to walk and showed up to dance.

This ugly bitch came to paradise on a Saturday night, did her makeup for 45 minutes trying to spackle over shit, squeezed her dumpy slobby subhuman body into this outfit, and chose to make demon politics her personality in a NIGHTCLUB. On a SATURDAY. In HAWAII.

The uglier the girl the louder the opinion. Write that down.

Jorge’s is packed. North Shore. 400 bodies. Drake from 2016 screaming bass.

Daisy sees me lock onto the shirt and goes “don’t.”

I go “I have to.”

She sighs like a woman who has watched this movie 400 times and the ending never changes and she loves the director anyway.

I sligiddy skluggedy slut walk my happy ass straight toward the bitch. Linen open. Chain swinging.

I look at her shirt and I go

“I love that shirt. I gave three abortions this morning with my truck’s antenna. Speedran all of them before breakfast. Drive thru style.”

She stares at me like I just appeared out of a different dimension.

Which honestly I did.

The dude next to her chokes on his IPA so hard it comes out his nose and he has to excuse himself and I never see him again. Gone. Vaporized. That man is still somewhere on the North Shore walking barefoot around Foodland looking for soy milk coughing up hops and meditating over his entire life because he stood too close to me at a bar. Casualties of war.

Political people. ALL of them. Every flavor. Every jersey. Every hat.

Their entire operating system runs two programs. Agree with me or fight me. That’s it. Two dialogue options like an NPC in a video game.

And I did neither.

I out crazied this bitch so hard and so fast her brain couldn’t categorize me. Ally or psychopath? Friend or foe?

She’s standing there buffering like a shitty school computer from 2008 trying to open two tabs and I am having the time of my fucking life watching the loading wheel spin behind her slut eyes.

That confusion. That beautiful 3 second window where a political person can’t figure out what team you’re on. That is my drug.

I will chase that high until fucked in the ground and even then my ghost will haunt dinner parties and say something so insane the labradoodle pisses itself and the host has to pretend it didn’t happen.

She starts talking. ICE this. Deportation that. The border. The camps. What some dumb bitch celebrity tweeted.

She’s giving me the full doctoral thesis while Drake is singing about being in his feelings and she is IN her feelings about federal immigration policy and I’m standing there with mezcal in my mouth nodding like a priest at a confession that went completely sideways about four sentences in.

“That’s crazy.”

“They did WHAT to the children?”

“No way. Not the children.”

I’m not listening. Not even a little. I’m watching her mouth move and thinking about how good that left was this morning at Haleiwa. About Daisy’s ass in her black dress. About my espresso tomorrow. About anything other than the words this haunted demon possessed lady is pumping into the air between us.

I find it funny a demon would possess a fat ugly lady. I guess they don’t make good decisions. I mean they did choose to side with Satan.

She spent her whole Saturday on X letting strangers pour rage into her skull through a screen until she caught it like a STI of the mind and wore it to Jorge’s like it was a personality.

She didn’t surf. Didn’t read. Didn’t cook. Didn’t get fucked by a man who loves her or she him. Didn’t create a single thing.

Just laid in bed marinating in other people’s fury until it filled up the hole where a life should be and now she’s pouring all that secondhand psychosis into my ears like I’m a human suggestion box.

I asked what she did today. Before the bar. Before the 45 minute makeup tutorial on the wreckage that is her face. Before the sermon.

“I was on X most of the day.”

Most. Of. The. Day. On a SATURDAY. In HAWAII. With the Pacific Ocean RIGHT THERE. 200 yards away. And she chose the screen. She chose strangers. She chose the jar.

A person with a full life doesn’t need a political identity. A person with an empty one can’t survive without it.

I excused myself. Told her bathroom. What I actually did was cut straight through the middle of the dance floor. 400 sweaty normies crammed shoulder to shoulder doing that thing where they bounce and hold their drinks up and pretend this is living. And I let a stinky fucking fart go. Silent but deadly. Kept walking. Didn’t look back. Crop dusted about 30 people on my way to the patio.

Sometimes the most honest thing you can leave behind in a room full of bullshit is a fart. I like to think God was smirking.

Made it outside. Lit a cigarette. Stars. Ocean. Trade winds.

Brain went quiet and clear the way it does when you step out of the noise and into the actual world where the sky is right there being enormous and infinite and completely indifferent to whatever the fuck the Jews or Palestine or Trump or the Muslims said or did this week.

I thought about how every single person in that building is living the same week on repeat. Same scroll. Same outrage. Same nothing ever happening.

They know who the vice president is but they don’t know their own body fat percentage. I don’t think the vice president wants to know his either.

They have opinions about the economy while their bank account is hemorrhaging in the red but hey THE JEWS.

They can recite everything the Jews or the immigrants or the billionaires or whoever the villain is this news cycle did wrong in six years but they cannot tell you the last time they made a woman feel ALIVE.

And I don’t mean the fake moan she does so you’ll finish and she can go look at her phone.

Politics is masturbation for people who don’t fuck. Same energy. Same screen. Same dopamine. Same loneliness dressed up as passion. Same nothing.

Go look. I’m dead serious. Go find the most politically vocal person you know and look at their body. Their apartment. Their Tuesday.

Their woman if they even have one which they don’t because nobody on planet earth is getting wet listening to a man rant about the geopolitical situation in the world. Nobody has ever been fucked properly by a man who rants about gay rights and immigration policy. That’s not a joke. That’s a pattern.

The blue haired girl screaming about the patriarchy from her apartment that smells like cat piss and astrology candles and vibrators she bought with daddy’s money while posting about dismantling capitalism? NPC.

The dude in the MAGA hat who can recite every rally speech but can’t do a single pull up and hasn’t seen his own dick without a mirror since 2016? NPC.

The libertarian who’s been “doing his own research” since 2019 and is now 40 pounds heavier with a beard that looks like something died on his face? Also NPC.

All standing in the same burning house screaming about the color of the curtains.

Politics is a jar full of ants that somebody shook.

All the little ants biting each other thinking the ant next to them is the enemy when the enemy is the hand that shook the jar.

Two parties. Same donors. Same owners. Same machine.

Politics are two wings of the same dragon and that dragon is up there laughing its evil ass off while you argue about which wing is flapping harder.

Politics is entertainment for ugly people with empty lives who need something to feel important.

Their actual existence generates less sensation than a dead battery in a drawer nobody opens.

And listen. I was one of them.

I went deep. The rabbit holes. The podcasts. The conspiracy threads where everything connects and nothing matters and you feel so fucking smart but you look so fucking stupid and you’re getting fatter by the week and your woman is asleep alone in the other room wondering when you became a man who talks to his phone more than he talks to her.

I remember the night it broke.

Three in the morning. January. Daisy had gone to bed at eleven. Kissed me on her way past. She was wearing my shirt. Nothing else. Bare legs.

And I barely fucking looked up.

Think about that. A beautiful half naked girl with my name on her body walked right past me to go sleep alone and I chose a screen full of strangers screaming about bullshit.

Four hours of scrolling. Couldn’t tell you a single thing I read. But my chest was tight and my jaw was locked and my hands just sat there useless like they’d forgotten they were built to touch things. Build things. Grab a woman by her hips and make her forget she was ever anywhere else.

You know what I found at the bottom of every rabbit hole? Another rabbit hole. And a fatter, angrier, more boring version of myself who knew everything about how the world works and nothing about why his girlfriend had gone quiet in bed.

Information without application is just trivia. And trivia facts never got anyone laid, paid, or free.

So I stopped.

Because I’m busy.

My random Tuesday has surfing in it. Training. Writing. Daisy. Espresso at sunrise. Mezcal at sunset. A motorcycle. A combat sport. A body I built with my own hands.

I don’t have TIME to care what some bloated politician said because I’m too busy being the kind of man that politician’s wife thinks about in the bath with the door locked while he’s downstairs on CNN stammering about Trump in a suit that doesn’t fit his disgusting pigged body.

A full man has no appetite for outrage. Only empty men are hungry enough to eat that shit daily.

When you’re actually winning at life, politics starts looking like two bald men fighting over a comb. You watch from across the room with your drink and you think “Fascinating. Anyway.”

And that anyway is the entire philosophy. That anyway is what freedom sounds like.

Your rage about the world is a confession about your life. If that made you angry it’s because it’s true and the truth has teeth and right now they’re in your neck.

I didn’t leave politics. I ascended them.

And the view from up here is fucking BEAUTIFUL.

Went back inside. Abortion shirt was now going at it with some drunk military dude who appeared out of absolutely nowhere like the simulation generated him specifically to be her final boss.

The two of them screaming at each other at 11:47 PM like whoever wins this argument at Jorge’s is going to single handedly change the world.

And honestly it was the most passion either of them had ever generated in their lives. This was their sex. This was their intimacy. Two hideous people screaming about the government at a bar because nobody had ever made either of them scream about anything else.

The crop dust had long dissipated but I like to believe it lingered. Spiritually.

Grabbed Daisy. Kissed her on the temple. She smelled like coconut and vodka sodas with lemons and home. She always smells like home.

Got in the car. Windows down.

Her hair whipping across my shoulder as she stared up at the stars. Hand on her thigh. Headlights cutting through the dark. The ocean sounded like God breathing slow and I was not worried about a single thing.

Cruzin down the slow road I had not one thought about politics. Not one thought about who’s president or who’s right or which team won the big important argument at Jorge’s.

Just salt air and a woman who chose me and a dark road going home to a life God blessed me with and I grabbed with my own stupidly beautiful hands while everyone else was busy choosing sides in a game they were never meant to win.

The game is rigged. Has been. Will be. Stop playing. Build your own.

The wolves don’t watch the news. The wolves ARE the news.

GOD BLESS THE WOLVES.

God Help The Rest

JOIN THE WOLFPACK (MESSAGE ME IF INTERESTED)

ALSO MESSAGE ME TO SIGN UP FOR FOUNDING WOLVES LETTERS

-Day