Fuckful Friday: Fucking Nightmare
Reincarnation, rage, and surviving bureaucratic hell in a dying empire
Three years ago I had a dream about reincarnation that I still talk about with friends of Jon; the deep, shared loss that this newsletter sprang from.
Our Jon was devilishly funny. His anxious perfectionism gave him the patience and discretion to skillfully time the most inappropriate humor imaginable. I know for a fact that myself, and a few readers, would likely not be here today if it were not for Jon’s honest and passionate companionship in this world. A world that’s always been as loudly cruel as it is quietly kind. With him gone, I can’t think of a better way to repay him than to keep fucking fighting.
There are days I’m furious, most days, honestly. The world is out of control. The depravity of empire is beyond heartbreak, it’s spiritual warfare, because we are made complicit by force. And those who refuse to acknowledge this objective reality? They add a special layer of rage I reserve for abusers and war criminals.
On days I find myself sneering at cognitively dissonant people, ordinary folks, with no power in the grand scheme, I wish Jon was here to cut the tension with a perfectly timed, wildly inappropriate joke.
We’re barreling toward a future where AI writes the jokes, and the punchlines kill. The drones don’t need to look like Terminators. They already mimic the sound of children to lure civilians out of hiding, hiding from a genocide.
Americans pay compulsory taxes that fund AI weapons that trick innocent people into their own murder. They also fly in post bombing to shoot injured Palestinian children, according to medical professionals. Here’s an article covering a BBC surgeon’s testimony to the UK government about children intentionally shot by quad drones.
…
I need a fucking Jon joke.
Maybe you do, too. Even if you didn’t know him.
Recently I was digging through an old email account for something unrelated when one of Jon’s emails popped up. It triggered a whole thread I’d forgotten about, detailing an absolutely bonkers time we had in an Atlanta condo building that hated renters.
Our immediate neighbors disliked us later on for different, legitimate reasons— too loud after 8pm, too many pool guests, letting overnight guests (or friends, or their friends) use our premo gated Midtown parking spaces (we didn’t have cars.) Then, there was that weekend with EMS in the hallway. But hey, roofies at bars happen, and what were we supposed to do—let that twink stumble home without medical care? I think not. He was one of our regular waiters!
Oh, and one of us briefly slept with a neighbor. Don’t casually fuck someone you share a wall with.
But before all that, we encountered a random crazy man during our move-in. For whatever reason, this guy (who worked for the complex) thought I was a Russian Jew, and proceeded to verbal attack me out of nowhere. He followed me around the complex over the course of weeks, and showed up at our front door banging and yelling after I filed a complaint.
The property manager was an absolute fuckface and we exchanged several emails where he insisted Jon and I meet with him AND the abusive crazy guy. I held firm that was not only unacceptable, but a safety violation of our housing agreement. The property manager caved eventually, but right after my final lengthy takedown email, Jon immediately replied with this:
There’s a possibility I won’t survive the next few years. Cuts to food assistance, medical coverage/care/personnel, the slow bureaucratic grind of death by a thousand small denials. My medicaid was recently renewed, and I dropped United Healthcare (FUCK OFF) for better coverage that actually includes my body’s specific issues.
But, I never got the new enrollment paperwork. Louisiana refuses to offer alternatives to mail delivery for homeless residents that doesn’t involve making an appointment at a SNAP office months in advance. You can’t actually schedule the appointment, either—they make it for you, like a kid. Also, why would I trust the department that routinely doesn’t send letters or online notifications, to hold important mail??
After nearly two months of back and forth, hours of hold music, dead ends, and supervisors who understand my frustration, I found out my plan was never changed at all. And I found out not because someone helped me; I logged into my old United Healthcare portal (FUCK ME.) Apparently, the State of Louisiana sees fit to determine my coverage for me, despite the fact that I’m a grown ass woman who pays taxes to receive this assistance in the first place.
I’m a chronically ill adult who files Louisiana taxes, but sure, let’s let the government pick my healthcare plan like I have no functional brain or ability to determine what’s best for my surgical needs, because that’s the decision they made for me. The surgeon I was looking at is not in network with United. I’m waiting until next week to see if my therapist is still covered.
And yet, here’s the mindfuck, it’s oddly comforting to admit that most of this isn’t in my control. It fucking is what it is. I can do everything right, advocate like hell for myself and others, stay on top of things more than the government, and still lose. That it may all come down to a divine roll of the dice…
You know what? That beats pretending I believe in this theater of evil lies.
There’s also a possibility I will survive.
I managed to finish the original 50 Fucks and I’m still going, not because I did it perfectly, well-edited, or on time. The point was showing up for more than just myself. And when life got too demanding, I took time away. And came back.
Again and again, I sat at this keyboard thinking, Who the fuck cares? What the hell can I say that hasn’t already been said?
But here’s the truth: few people ever write a word of their own story. Not because they lack depth, but because it’s fucking scary. It’s risky, plain and simple. And that’s why every true word matters, now more than ever. The truth is the most powerful thing a person can offer the world.
We live under open fascism. We will for a while. Every honest sentence does more damage to authoritarianism than a thousand bombs.
Who knows what the dice have in store for any of us, so why bother holding onto falsehoods and lies?
In heaven, lost my taste for hell.
-Yeah Yeah Yeahs
Now, back to the dream I mentioned.
In the reincarnation dream, I was quickly shown past lives, and learned there’d been a cosmic mix-up. I had lived a life that was supposed to go to one of my ancestors. The divine clerical error?
I was Hitler.
Yeah. You read that right. I was committing genocide against Jews, gays, the disabled, Roma, leftists, compassionate figures—basically everyone I explicitly love and try to protect in this life.
My adoptive father was Jewish.
I’m Jewish.
This dream came at a time when I was deeply wounded, spiritually alone and surrounded by people who had no time for grief. It was horrifying to wake up from that dream. But the shock melted to laughter after I considered that only Jon would send me a laughter lifeline where I’m Hitler.
Of course, the dream wasn’t entirely fictional. Jews are committing a genocide, with a lot of help—primarily the United States of Assholes.
So, maybe this really is my Expedited Extreme Reincarnation Package™. They said I was over halfway complete, and next time I’ll be prepared. I have a few minor requests that I believe will greatly improve overall human morale, across dimensions.
I want Dick Cheney and Bibi Netanyahu removed from eternal existence, in perpetuity, throughout the universe, for all time.
That’s all I’m asking for.
Fair request, considering they made me Hitler.
And if you’re reading this? Well, you might want to check your package level, because what kind of spiritual freak signs up to live now?
Any way, glad you’re here.
