Let’s get weird.
Let’s get philosophical, uncomfortable, and brutally honest about where we are as a species in the early 21st century—spoiler alert: we’re not doing great. But hey, we’re pretty good at pretending we are, and that’s something, right?
We’ve Substituted Everything Except the Truth
Reality, for all its grittiness and boredom and dental bills, just isn’t cutting it anymore. So we trade it in for something a little more manageable, a little shinier, a little less… real. We’ve substituted reality with entertainment. With drugs. With religion. With porn. With doomscrolling and curated Instagram reels of people pretending to be fulfilled. We’ve collectively agreed that “being” is too much, so instead, we simulate.
Pick your poison. Edibles, evangelism, or Elden Ring—everyone’s got a reality replacement package, and most of us are on the family plan.
You don’t need to understand your life if you can binge someone else’s in high definition. You don’t have to sit with your demons if you can microdose mushrooms and claim it’s for “creativity.” You don’t need to face your childhood trauma if you can just join a CrossFit cult and deadlift your way to artificial purpose. We’ve industrialized escapism.
Religion 2.0: Simulated, Streamable, and Still Sh*ts Piranhas
Let’s be fair: this isn’t new. Religion’s been the original dopamine substitute since before indoor plumbing. And I don’t mean that cynically (okay, maybe a little). But seriously, the idea that there’s a reason for all this nonsense? That’s intoxicating. Patton Oswalt famously joked about a sky-asshole that sh*ts piranhas if you don’t behave—and as far as theology goes, that’s about as rational as some of the doctrines that have shaped empires.
Modern religion is just simulation theory with incense. It says, “Hey, you’re not in control, but the guy who is might give you eternal bliss if you just act right.” Sounds like an emotionally manipulative relationship, but hey—if it gets you through the night, light the candle, burn the sage, kneel to the algorithm. It’s all just something bigger than you, right?
Simulation theory’s version is just as seductive: What if we’re in a giant video game, and none of this really matters? Comforting, isn’t it? Because then your job, your anxiety, your inability to fold a fitted sheet—they’re not your fault. It’s just bad coding.
But let’s get Kantian with it for a minute.
Kant, Metaphor, and the Peasants Who Couldn’t Read
Immanuel Kant, the 18th-century German philosopher whose forehead likely entered the room before he did, argued about the limits of perception and the power of thought. He didn’t just ask what we know, but how we know that we know. He dove deep into epistemology while most of the world was still figuring out indoor heating.
And you know what he said that hits hardest today?
That most people—the peasants, the laborers, the dirty-fingernail folk—didn’t have access to thoughts beyond survival. They couldn’t read. Couldn’t write. No voice. Just toil. Their story wasn’t written by them, but about them, by the few literate folks who could afford parchment and boredom.
Which, in the modern world, translates perfectly. If you’re not online, you don’t exist. If you don’t brand yourself, you’re irrelevant. If you don’t write your story in tweets and filtered stories, someone else will do it for you—and they’ll miss the point entirely.
You are the algorithm’s peasant. You don’t own the data. You just mine it.
And metaphor? It’s the first form of higher thought. The moment your caveman ancestor said, “Go right around rock to not die,” metaphor was born. Internal monologue. Ego. Planning. Consciousness. Simulation. It started with a grunt and became marketing.
Systemic Poverty: Outside the Castle, Always
Let’s be real: systemic racism and poverty aren’t bugs in the system. They are the system. You grow up outside the castle, and chances are, you’ll die outside it too—probably working for someone whose great-great-great-grandpa built the castle with your great-great-great-grandpa’s unpaid labor.
And sure, there are stories of people who “rose above it”—but how? Through war, sacrifice, or absurd amounts of luck. If you’re a man, you could join the military, dodge enough bullets to gain a pension, maybe a VA loan, and end up with a decent credit score if PTSD doesn’t bankrupt your soul first.
And in today’s simulation? You grind in sales.
Sales: The Modern-Day Battlefield of Egos
Let me tell you something real. Sales is a goddamn weird profession. It’s a job where you’re expected to have the answers to questions nobody is asking, to make people feel better about decisions they can’t afford, and to respond to “I’m just looking” like it’s the opening move in a chess match.
I had a conversation with a VP of sales recently—great guy, probably drinks craft beer unironically—and I had to stop mid-convo and say, “Hey, I don’t think you’re getting what I’m saying. I’m not an employee complaining. I’m a peer pointing out that you’re giving flamethrowers to toddlers.”
You’re teaching advanced objection handling and ego management to people who still struggle to tie their emotional shoelaces. It’s like handing out pilot licenses at a demolition derby. Counterproductive doesn’t even begin to cover it.
Because what sales should be is simple:
- Here’s the product.
- Here’s what it costs.
- Do you want it?
If yes, great.
If no, also great.
But don’t act like I’m robbing you by offering you a goddamn camper. This is America, not a bazaar in Tatooine.
Sales Is Just Marketing With a Sore Throat
Look, I don’t like sales. I never have. The whole idea of cold-calling, of smiling while someone insults your intelligence, of begging for their money so you can feed your kid a hot dog that week—it’s demeaning.
What I do like? Marketing. Building a system so good they come to you. You don’t chase. You attract. You become a lighthouse, not a telemarketer.
Let me help you buy something. Let me facilitate, not manipulate. That’s all anyone wants, really. Clarity. Objectivity. No games.
But instead? We treat every transaction like a duel. No one trusts anyone. Everyone’s gaming everyone else.
Because we all know it’s not real.
Not the sales scripts.
Not the corporate lingo.
Not the fake smiles and forced “customer satisfaction.”
Not the lives we portray on LinkedIn or Facebook.
None of it.
So What’s Left?
Just you. Sitting here. Reading this. Wondering if this was supposed to be a rant or a revelation (spoiler: it’s both). And realizing that maybe, just maybe, you’re not crazy. The world is just fundamentally unserious now.
We’re trying to find meaning in memes. Purpose in side hustles. Hope in brand loyalty. And truth in algorithms.
Maybe the only way out is through. Through metaphor. Through thought. Through the kind of honesty that makes people uncomfortable in meetings but respected after drinks.
We’re all peasants with iPhones, chasing piranha gods in the sky, hoping to level up in a simulation designed to glitch.
And if you’re still here, reading this? Maybe you’ve already figured out the secret:
The game is rigged. But playing it with your eyes open is the first real rebellion. You rebel scum
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