The Trump Diet: Eat Less, Thank Tariffs
For decades, America fought a losing battle with its own appetite. Gym memberships surged, step counters chirped, kale had its moment. Yet the weight remained. Because the real problem wasn’t willpower. It was access.
Enter Donald J. Trump—a man who looked at our bloated national pantry and said: Let’s make it more expensive.
Through the subtle alchemy of tariffs, Trump introduced a diet plan disguised as economic policy. Imported goods? Pricier. Processed snacks? Suddenly a luxury. Soda, chips, cookies—now tucked behind a small but meaningful financial paywall.
And just like that, the pounds began to drop.
Families began buying only what they needed. No more impulse bags of Doritos tossed in the cart. No more 3-for-1 cases of Mountain Dew. People returned to basics—beans, rice, tap water. Hunger, it turns out, is clarifying.
Some call it hardship. But isn’t that what every real diet demands? Discipline through discomfort?
Trump’s genius wasn’t in telling us to eat better. It was in making it harder not to. He knew the quickest route to national health wasn’t awareness—it was restriction. Not a food pyramid. A price spike.
So when you pass the snack aisle with a sigh, remember: you’re not deprived. You’re participating in a grand plan. You’re leaner. Sharper. Slightly irritable, yes—but lighter.
America didn’t go on a diet. It got tariffed into one.
And we’ve never looked so trim.
Who Writes the Books
You write it.
It sucks.
So you write it again.
Still sucks.
You wonder who you’re kidding—
calling it work, calling yourself a writer.
It feels like a joke.
A hobby playing dress-up.
But you’re still here.
The world didn’t ask.
It’s not waiting.
There’s no audience.
No prize.
Just that thing in your gut
that keeps hauling you back
like a bad habit you can’t shake.
That’s the hinge.
Not love.
Not talent.
Not some myth about "calling".
Just return.
Dragging your sorry ass back to the page.
That’s the hinge.
And the lever?
It’s your hand moving
when your head says don’t bother.
It’s typing through the static,
scraping at one dead paragraph
until it bleeds something half-honest.
Knowing no one’s watching.
Knowing it changes nothing.
But doing it clean.
You thought belief made you a writer.
But belief fades.
It always does.
What matters is
who shows up
when it’s gone.
That’s who writes the book.
-
Hemingway called his work shit. Celeste Ng rewrote whole books. David Foster Wallace drowned in doubt. Every writer you admire thought they weren’t good enough. Hell, they still think that.
They wrote anyway.
The Smartest Idiots
We are the only species clever enough to engineer our own extinction and arrogant enough to call it progress.
We trade time for money and call it ambition.
Drown in information and starve for meaning.
Praise freedom while begging to be ruled.
Invent machines that think faster than us and then ask them what it means to be human.
We are brilliant.
We are monstrous.
We are toddlers with flamethrowers.
The earth will survive us. It always planned to.
It will shake us off like a fever.
And the worms will inherit the libraries we left behind.
Not because they are wise but because they are quiet.
Schrödinger’s Cat Fight
Ball misses. Hard.
Thunk. Spins in a lazy death circle.
"Shit!"
Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand like he's proud of the mess.
"You get it though, babe? Like that — that cat. That fuckin' science cat," waving his stick like a preacher, "dead and not dead. Same time. Like, this shot coulda gone, coulda not. Until you look. Quantum, baby."
She laughs into her drink. Ash dangles off her cigarette.
"You’re an idiot,"
loud behind them.
Turn.
Guy standing there.
Hair a mess. Shirt stained. Swaying like a building about to fall.
"You don’t even fuckin' know what that means."
Pool guy grins. Wide. Fake tough. "It’s possibilities, man. It’s... it’s like, everything, until you check."
Drunk guy stumbles closer.
Finger out. Poking the air.
"Schrödinger’s Cat was a fuck you, not a drippy flex. He wasn’t saying the cat is dead and alive — he was saying the theory’s broken.
That maybe math doesn’t own reality. That maybe you should shut the fuck up unless you know what the fuck you're quoting."
Girl backing up. Still half-smiling. This could still be funny.
“It’s a cat,” the pool guy says, shrugging. “Alive and dead. Long as the box stays shut, anything’s possible.”
“Yeah,” the drunk says, voice cracking like glass. “Anything’s possible. With your girl—maybe she’s still behind you, maybe she’s on her knees in the bathroom. Depends if you check.”
Silence.
Air pulls tight.
Pool guy steps closer. Stick drops to the floor, clattering.
"You wanna say that again?"
Drunk doesn’t even blink.
"Maybe she's dead and alive too. Schrödinger’s bitch."
That’s it.
Fist flies.
Catches drunk hard across the jaw.
Wet crack.
Body folds. Hits the floor, arms tangled under.
Laughter spills from him, leaking blood out the corner of his mouth.
Grinning up at the cracked ceiling tiles.
"Still right," he says.
"Still fuckin' right."
Nobody moves.
Nobody cares.
Next rack.
Next drink.
Next mistake.
Even Kingdoms Adapt
Morning came, blood and cardboard. Frank woke with seizure memory still trembling in his muscles. Martha sat cross-legged on her milk crate throne, wrapped in blue tarp, clear-eyed today.
The court gathered—Duke, Wizard, Princess Ruby with purple yarn braided into her hair. A man with a clipboard approached, offering programs, vouchers, medicine. Martha granted audience.
The kingdom had survived on wariness, but winter approached. Frank's seizures worsened. Ruby's cough lingered. Even kingdoms must adapt.
The man left his card. Martha tucked a bent dandelion behind her ear. Queen in her crown.
Court is in session.
First, After
She checked the time.
Checked her phone.
Checked the door.
Checked her reflection.
He’s not late.
He’s not late.
He’s not—
coming?
Stop.
That’s not fair.
Be fair.
You said you'd try.
He wanted sushi.
You picked Italian.
Like the rehearsal night—
the last thing he ate.
It’s not a test.
It’s not betrayal.
It’s just dinner.
Just—
She touched the napkin.
Her ring finger twitched.
Don’t think of rings.
Don’t think of ash.
He said we could wait.
He said stay home.
He said not today.
She said
Hawaii.
No weather warnings.
No second thoughts.
No life vests.
No—
wedding.
The wine list blurred.
Waves on white paper.
She didn’t drink anymore.
She did.
After.
What if he’s kind?
What if he’s dull?
What if he dies too—
and it’s her fault
again?
She practiced hello.
Practiced her laugh.
Practiced surviving.
Didn’t
practice this.
She almost left.
She almost stayed.
She almost
believed.
He’s late.
He’s not late.
He’s not—
Hi.
Sorry—traffic.
She blinked.
Breathed.
Smiled.
It’s okay.
I just got here.
But Where Did He Go?
Sophie tugged her mom’s sleeve.
“If Jesus is in heaven now,” she whispered, “where’s his body?”
“Sweetheart,” her mom whispered back, “His body and soul rose together.”
“But you said only souls go to heaven.”
“Yes, but this was special.”
“Did he fly?”
“He ascended.”
“Like a balloon?
Her mom winced. “Not like a balloon.”
Maya stared at the man on the screen. He looked happy. Too happy for someone who just got nailed to a tree.
We All Stayed
We could’ve left.
Just stood up
and kept walking
until the cities blinked out
from lack of eyes.
But we didn’t.
Because the couch is warm.
Because we’re tired.
Because the system’s a lullaby
we hum along to
even when we hate the tune.
I wanted to be angry.
I was.
But I also wanted to see what happened next
in the show,
in the feed,
in the lie I keep
calling normal.
Conviction is heavy.
It doesn’t stream well.
You can’t binge it.
So I set it down.
We all did.
And the world kept spinning
on subscription.
Measles as a Cure
Nobody speaks plain anymore, so I reckon I should try:
My whole life I’ve been told what to do by people who don’t know me. Wash your hands this way. Eat this, not that. Give your kids shots full of things you can’t pronounce, or else you’re a bad parent. Now they’re saying the measles are back, like that’s the end of the world.
Well, I think maybe it’s exactly what we needed.
When I was growing up, folks got sick and we got through it. We didn’t need fancy hospitals or some government man telling us how to wipe our noses. You got a fever, you sweated it out. Mama would rub something on your chest, and by the next week you were back outside, stronger than before.
Now every little sniffle is treated like a crisis.
Truth is, I believe this measles outbreak is the Good Lord's way of setting things straight. Maybe some folks need to remember what it means to fight. Maybe we all do. Maybe this is a correction. A warning. A kind of cleansing, if you want to call it that.
Young people today don’t know what a real sickness feels like. They’re scared of sunlight, peanuts, air. They can’t drink milk. They can’t handle discomfort. They act like a rash and a fever is the apocalypse.
That used to just be part of growing up.
Nowadays, every child gets injected before they’ve even learned to walk. Still, they get sick. Still, they’ve got allergies and problems I never heard of when I was a kid. Doctors don’t cure much anymore. They just prescribe, as long as your credit card clears.
But measles? Measles doesn’t care how rich you are or how many degrees your parents have. It shows up, tests you, burns through you, and if you’ve got the strength, you come out the other side better.
Maybe that’s what we’re missing.
Strength. Resilience. Backbone. Everyone talks about “herd immunity” like it’s some magic spell, but I think the herd got soft. Maybe this is nature’s way of sharpening the edges again.
So no—I’m not afraid of the measles. I’m not hiding. I’m not asking the government to save me. I say let it come. Let it run its course. Let it do what it’s supposed to.
If we want to be a strong country again, maybe we need to remember that pain isn’t always the enemy. Sometimes it’s the lesson we’ve been avoiding.
You can keep your shots and your rules and your sanitized, bubble-wrapped lives.
I’ve got dirt on my boots, blood in my spit, and a cough that sounds like freedom.