I saw that quote on Facebook this week, attributed to Friedrich Nietzsche. My response, which took me no time to think about at all, was that butterflies don't infest people's homes, get in their food, or spread diseases. I withheld my further analysis that Nietzsche was a moron and I could scratch looking into his philosophical contributions off my bucket list. In preparing for this post, however, I wasn't very surprised to learn that this quote doesn't come from the famous 19th-century philosopher at all, but rather from some random guy on Twitter in 2012. Classic internet.

The thing is, this guy could have made a valid point if he'd picked an ugly bug that wasn't a cockroach. When I see an earwig in my living space, I kill it on the spot with a feeling of revulsion. When I see a spider, I catch it and put it outside. When I see a box elder bug, I ignore it. The latter, admittedly, hasn't happened since I lived in Logan, where they were so plentiful that I didn't care if they crawled on me, like invasive Japanese ladybugs when I lived in New York. I'll freely admit to being a bug racist. But cockroaches are an extra level of awful, and my own experience with them wasn't even that bad. The most I ever killed in a day was nine. I've heard about people killing hundreds in an hour. A friend told me about living in a place where the floor went from black to white when he turned the light on, and having them swarm his face and stuff. If I'm ever in a situation like that, rest assured that I'll burn the place down with myself inside.

Mind you, I'm talking about my living space. I typically go out of my way not to kill bugs outside, no matter how ugly they are. I've seen several June bugs outside my apartment complex, and I've seen several that have obviously been crushed to death on purpose, and I don't like that. If one ever gets in my apartment, I'll freak the hell out, but until then, I say live and let live. Conversely, if I see ants in here, I'll kill them even though I don't find them particularly ugly because they cause some of the same issues as cockroaches. I try to take a non-malicious approach regardless. Cockroaches are a morally neutral part of nature that evolved to do what they do, and they have as much right to exist as I do - but I'm a part of nature too, and I'm bigger than they are, and I don't want them here. I felt a little bad about them slowly dying of thirst inside my Roach Motels, but that's life.

Thanks to the angels at the Roach Motel company, I haven't seen a live cockroach in months, but I realized that they'd traumatized me when I had a nightmare about them this week - possibly because I read that quote, though I've already forgotten which happened first. I was in a train car talking to some people about stuff, and I asked them to kill the cockroach that flew in. I had some awareness that this was a dream, and I debated whether I should wake up to make sure that, by some unfortunate coincidence, a flying cockroach hadn't actually gotten into my apartment to start a new infestation. I recognized that I was being paranoid, but in the end, I couldn't rest easy until I knew for sure, so I did wake up. What fun.

Today, for the second time, a little brown shield beetle got through my supposedly sealed window. These guys don't look like either of the species of cockroaches I've had, but they're close enough to make me uneasy. The first time, I caught it in a cup, took a picture, and asked Gemini if it was a cockroach. This time, I tried to do the same thing because I'd forgotten exactly what the first one looked like. However, this one was less docile. The first one stayed in the cup without me even having to cover it, and I didn't even realize it could fly until Gemini told me, after I'd carried it outside and shaken it out onto a bush. This one escaped while I was trying to take a picture. Right next to my bed, too. Fortunately, after I got back from the Pride parade, I found it on the frame of the balcony door, and I got a picture and shooed it outside before Gemini reassured me that I hadn't just made a terrible mistake by not killing a cockroach when I had the chance.

Sorry if this isn't interesting. I thought maybe I'd write about Jeff Strong's new book, Torn, that's meant to help LDS Church members understand how many people have left and the real reasons why, or the Bricks and Minifigs / American Fork Police Department scandal that I finally learned about because approximately eight million YouTube channels are covering it, or Pete Kegsbreath's new military chaplaincy classification chart that doesn't classify the LDS Church as a Christian denomination because news flash, Mormons, you're not welcome in the Christian Nationalist club no matter how much you help them take trans people's rights away. I didn't feel motivated enough to force myself to write about those things. What got my fingers moving? Cockroaches. Freaking cockroaches. Well, specifically the fact that someone was ignorant enough to think that crushing cockroaches but not butterflies is solely a matter of aesthetic criteria. I'm glad that someone wasn't Nietzsche. Maybe I'll read some of his stuff someday after all.

And cockroaches still deserve to live more than ICE agents do.

I recently discovered a Smith's grocery store the same distance from my apartment as the other two Smith's grocery stores I've been to, but I can get there 20% faster because it's in a quieter part of town and most of the intersections between here and there don't have traffic lights. The other evening, I was leaving the store with four grocery bags, and an old homeless man on a bike with a trailer full of stuff called out to me as I passed him. I managed to hear him over my headphones. He was like, "That looks like a heavy load." I was like, "Yeah. It's fine, I need the exercise," which is true, and I kept walking before he could make me feel guilty for having no cash to give him, although frankly, homeless people usually ask me for a cigarette or a light instead. He kept talking, so I paused my music because my heart is too big. He asked how far I had to go. I had a mile and a half to go, but I rounded down to a mile so it wouldn't sound like a big deal, but it wasn't. No dice. He wanted me to hang my bags from his trailer so he could help me carry them. He promised not to ride off with them. I wasn't worried about that, since I could have caught him and kicked his ass pretty easily, but I just wanted to be left alone with my music. I agreed to let him help me because my heart is too big.

He was slow and cautious, always maneuvering and looking back to make sure my bags didn't scrape against signs or anything. Spoiler alert, letting him help took over twice as long as carrying the bags myself. But I didn't get impatient because I knew I was doing an important thing. He told me right off about how much he loves to help people and how he needs to be better about letting people help him because he deprives them of happiness when he doesn't. He told me all about his daughters and his adventure pretending to be his friend's lawyer and getting yelled at by a judge. He said he'd been homeless for eight years, since his wife divorced him. He said the worst parts about being homeless are how the cops treat you and how citizens treat you. He said being homeless is awful, and he wouldn't wish it on his worst enemy, but it's interesting. He said he was finally motivated to try to get into housing because his best friend had made him realize how many loved ones he'd dragged down with him. He asked if I'd ever been homeless. I said no, and didn't mention that I would have been multiple times if not for other people's generosity because I thought that might make him feel bad about not being the recipient of such generosity. He said most people don't realize they're only two or three paychecks away from homelessness. I, for one, am acutely and frequently aware of that. But yeah, most people in this country are still under the delusion that they can become rich if they work hard.

By the time we got to my place, I felt very bad for telling him it was a mile. I offered him a box of crackers from my groceries because how could I not, but he just wanted something cold to drink. I got him some strawberry lemonade from my fridge. Before we parted ways, he talked about God, said he'd let his daughters make their own religious decisions, and now one of them is LDS, one is a born-again Christian, one is agnostic, and one is atheist. I gathered that he was an agnostic, too. I mentioned that I don't have the same beliefs about God as most people here, but I didn't get a chance to explain the "We're all part of God" thing. Anyway, I don't know how to shape this into an engaging story, and I don't mean to be like "Look, I'm so generous" or "Hey guys, I learned that homeless people are people," but this was an impactful experience for me, so I wanted to write about it. I'm glad I was open to it. I won't apologize for leading a solitary existence or having my music on most of the time (though I won't for a few days, since my phone broke this morning), but in this instance, giving this man my time and letting him help me was the right thing to do. His name was Kevin. I hope he gets into housing and has a great rest of his life. I'm not optimistic, given that the Republican platform is basically "Fuck the poor" and they're driving us into a massive recession, if not a second Great Depression, but... well, there's no but. I'm not optimistic. At least he has a positive attitude and a beautiful heart.

I am aware that blasting my family drama out to the internet is frowned upon in some circles. I do not care. I assume most people will have no interest in reading about it, anyway, which will make this very different from my other, wildly popular posts. But it will end on an uplifting note, I swear.

The other day, I texted my dad for the first time in eleven months. I said,

"Because the government classifies me as 'self-employed,' I recently paid a third of my savings in taxes, including a double portion of Medicaid tax. I pay a thousand dollars a month for housing. Thanks to Trump's 'big beautiful bill,' I can't get Medicaid because my income is 'too high.' Thanks to the same bill, health insurance is less affordable than ever, and even if I did have it, the company would refuse to cover anything.

"Meanwhile, a billionaire from another country is getting a 96% tax break to build a gargantuan data center in Utah that will quadruple my energy bills and make my air unbreathable.

"According to you, this is the way things should be, and I'm whiny and entitled for resenting it. That's a good example of why I don't talk to you."

Could I have been less combative? Sure. Would you have been as civil as I was if you'd taken as much shit from him over the years as I have? Not likely.

He responded, "You think the government should be paying for your health care, but you don't like high taxes. Makes perfect sense."

It truly amazes me that a man with a Masters degree could miss the point so completely. In the heat of the moment, I didn't have the patience to dumb it down for him, but in case any morons are reading this, I will now.

1. I had significant expenses, including but by no means limited to taxes.
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2. The (Republican) government ignored these expenses and determined that my income was "too high" for me to receive healthcare.

3. I cannot afford healthcare.

4. At the same time, the (Republican) government is giving a massive handout to a wealthy asshole, because despite all conservatives' talk about individualism and meritocracy, they love giving massive handouts to wealthy assholes who don't need them.

And in case any morons haven't stopped reading this after I called them morons, I know that "free" healthcare costs tax money. Everyone knows that. It's not the "gotcha" you think it is. Libraries cost tax money too, but my family loves those. I could have gotten healthcare with the taxes that I already paid, but instead, I helped murder children in the Middle East. That was essentially my response to my dad, which he didn't acknowledge because a. he never acknowledges when he's blatantly wrong and b. like most conservatives, he doesn't give a shit about children in the Middle East. If this country had real social safety nets, I would consider paying higher taxes a worthwhile tradeoff for not constantly being one financial emergency away from living on the street, and also, the taxes to fund universal healthcare would be cheaper than health insurance premiums because they wouldn't cover the salaries of parasites like the late Brian Thompson who make millions of dollars a year by denying people healthcare. This system would also tens of thousands of lives every year, but we've already established that people like my dad don't give a shit about things like that.

My dad has spent his life defending inequality and injustice. This was a source of tension between us long before I knew anything about politics. When I could plainly see that something was bullshit, he said, "That's the way it is." He confirmed, as if I didn't already know, that he sincerely believes that his own son shouldn't be able to afford something that every other country in the developed world treats as a human right. He could be angry about the racist secret police terrorizing communities and tearing famillies apart, or he could be angry about any of a thousand unconstitutional power grabs by his lesser of two evils that would have given him an aneurysm if Obama had done them, but instead, he's angry at the prospect of anyone who's not a wealthy asshole, including his own son, getting medical treatment without working sixty hours a week and selling their kidneys. I do not respect his differences in philosophy. They disgust me to my core. That, as I said, is why I don't talk to him.

The lack of empathy, though particularly appalling in this instance, is nothing new. I've been on the receiving end for as long as I can remember. Both of my parents have some mental disability that makes them incapable of empathizing with or trying to understand anything outside of their personal experience and narrow view of the world. My dad knew what it was like to not be able to swim because his skinny body sank like a rock, so he empathized with me on that, and that was about it. He didn't understand how my brain worked or how I saw the world, so he decided I was always wrong and had an attitude problem, and strangely enough, his authoritarian, violent responses gave me an attitude problem. It's not like we've never discussed this. Years ago, after reading my blog, he said he understood me better and was sorry for the things he messed up on. I mean, he could have understood me better a lot sooner if he had, y'know, asked, which he didn't do because he was the grown-up and thought he knew everything, but cool. He said we were both different people now. Yeah, no, he just made it clear that he's the same person who used to hit me for not understanding social cues. He can go to the doctor whenever he wants and get as much prostate medicine as he wants, so fuck me. He wasn't raped by an imploding economy from the time he was born like my entire generation was, so clearly he's in a superior financial situation because he worked harder and deserves it more.

Furthermore, I believe without question that he would have fought for the Confederacy because he's always been fixated on states' rights and considered minorities' suffering to be acceptable collateral damage for electing people who call themselves conservatives. That's a sobering realization. He also loves the electoral college, but in fairness, he probably doesn't know that it was primarily created to advantage Southern slaveowners.

It's bizarre, frankly, because it's not like everything my dad has said or done was unloving. We've had good times. He's done kind and generous things for me, and of course he thinks I'm ungrateful and unreasonable for not focusing on those things and pretending the rest doesn't matter. First of all, though I do count some of them, especially the ones he did when I was an adult, I don't believe I owe him lifelong gratitude for fulfilling the basic obligations of parenthood that he chose to take on (even the ones he didn't screw up). More to the point, however, the fact remains that you cannot love someone and be indifferent to whether they have access to healthcare. That shouldn't need to be said - ever - but here we are.

I continued:

"It's quite telling that your immediate impulse is to double down on being an asshole instead of having the slightest shred of empathy for your own son who hasn't been to a doctor in five years and plans on offing himself if he ever gets a condition that would put him in medical debt. I was feeling guilty that you might die someday without me ever attempting to re-establish a relationship, but now I don't. Thanks, I guess."

Also:

"btw, that time I called you was a mistake. I was copying your number to give to a friend so she could congratulate you on getting what you voted for if I got shot by an ICE agent. Then after your voicemail, I felt guilty and tried to call for real. Oh well."

He responded: "👍"

This means that either he doesn't give a shit about me never speaking to him again, or he wants me to think he doesn't give a shit about me never speaking to him again. Probably the former, because if he did, he could easily rectify the situation. He chose this. He would rather have a stick up his ass about Medicaid than have a relationship with his son. I respect his wishes even though I don't respect his views. Actually, in a perverse way, I almost admire his obstinacy. Maybe he'll use it for good someday.

The last thing I said before blocking his number was, "Don't expect me to go to your funeral and lie about what a great father you were." After having some time to calm down and reflect, though, I regret not also telling him that if I die first, he's not welcome at mine. That scenario isn't altogether unlikely because he has healthcare, and I don't. Could someone please let him know?

As for my mom, I've probably mentioned once or twice that I cut her off for saying "You could move to Costa Rica" when I told her I had to talk to a suicide hotline after the election, except that I've unblocked her number a few times to remind her of the blood that's on her hands for supporting a fascist. I called her an asshole, so calling my dad an asshole created balance. And now here I am, an orphan. Not much has really changed. I already wasn't talking to my parents, getting birthday or Christmas checks from my parents, planning on visiting my parents in the foreseeable future, or expecting to inherit anything when my parents die. (If I were as entitled as they think I am, I would pretend to like them so they'd send me checks and put me in their will.) And since I started using Kush Kubes, my depression has plummeted to almost nothing even when I'm not high. My anger hasn't. Sometimes I think I'm angrier than I used to be. If I am, it's because I live in an openly fascist country now, and I'm reacting appropriately. On the other hand, I've always had an anger issue, and maybe I'm just more self-conscious about it now because it's at odds with my desire to be enlightened and stuff. So my reaction to cutting off my dad was 95% anger, 5% depression, and the next day, I was over it. I wasn't even very angry when I wrote this. I just enjoy writing with powerful language.

Enough of that. Here's the uplifting note I promised. My dad has claimed, based on his Mormon beliefs, that when I was born, he got a strong impression that we were best friends in the premortal existence. He said this gave him strength when getting along was so difficult. I don't believe in Mormonism, but I still believe in a form of premortal existence, which makes philosophical sense is a recurring theme in near-death experiences. I'm open to the possibility that he's right about that one thing. That seemed unlikely for a while because in this existence, we have little in common. Sure, we enjoy four of the same Star Wars movies, we laugh at some of the same jokes, I love the Beatles and Roxette and David Arkenstone because of him, and I think his engineering skills are cool, but our beliefs and values are so different that we had little to talk about even when I was willing to try. If we weren't related, I would never have chosen to associate with him at all. And it's not like I expect my friends to be copies of me. I've argued with the woman of my dreams more than once, but not about human rights.

Now, it's my understanding that we're all here as actors, playing roles, and the things that divide us are not the full extent of our true selves. Furthermore, some NDErs claim that people who love each other in the premortal existence sometimes take on antagonistic roles here to help each other's grow. So maybe my dad and I did that. Maybe I specifically asked him to say that stupid shit about taxes. It's a nice idea that makes me not hate him. If my beliefs are correct, we can laugh this off when we're all dead. If his beliefs are correct, it doesn't matter how much of a relationship we have before then because I, along with his dad, most of his siblings, and another of his children, won't be part of his eternal family in the celestial kingdom after rejecting Mormonism. (To be clear, I think there's a 0% chance that his beliefs are correct.) If our consciousness ends at death, nothing matters. There are, of course, other possibilities besides those three, but none that I'm particularly concerned about in this context.

​I feel closer now. We both know where we stand. Now on with my life as an orphan.

I figured out some time ago that the propaganda of American exceptionalism I was raised with - and I got a double dose because it's embedded in Mormon theology - is bullshit. By November 2024 at the latest, I knew that American society was rotten to the core. I had some understanding of the psychological reasons why MAGAts are dumber than mold, but it never satisfied me because nobody is putting guns to their heads and making them only watch Fox News. This video is the first explanation I've heard, though, that really drives home how deep the rot goes and makes me feel genuine compassion for MAGAts without being on drugs. No, really. When I'm on drugs, I understand that it isn't their fault they're so goddamn stupid, but as soon as the drugs wear off, I'm too tired of their bullshit to care. I still don't know how to help them when they don't want to be helped because they're too stupid to know what's good for them. I don't know how to fix the systemic, intentional problems that go back to the founding of this country. The current foundation will probably have to be burned down entirely. Trump is doing a decent job of that. I think AI has the potential to fix a lot of these problems, but chances are just as good that it will make them several times worse instead. I think it really depends on whether there's a divine purpose behind this world or just massive cosmic indifference. I'm not on drugs right now, I'm just not trying particularly hard to be coherent because my motivation is shot, which is why I'm happy to share a 50-minute video (though you can watch it at 2x speed, like I did) instead of writing a real post.