May 6, 2026

Raw-Dogging the Apocalypse

Dear Future Me,

The espresso machine made a noise this morning like a dying fax machine trapped inside a haunted lighthouse, which felt appropriate because America currently resembles a failed group project run by raccoons with security clearances. Everybody’s overtired. Everybody’s vibrating at frequencies previously only achieved by microwaves. And now RFK Jr. has apparently decided the greatest threat facing modern civilization is not housing costs, not collapsing healthcare access, not the fact that everybody now dissociates in the toothpaste aisle at Target, but antidepressants.

Yes. Somewhere inside RFK “Toilet Seat Tony” Jr.’s frontal lobe, Dr. Wiggles the Brainworm is apparently pacing back and forth in tiny orthopedic sandals, clutching a wellness podcast microphone and whispering, “What if Americans simply raw-dogged the apocalypse?”

Phenomenal. Incredible. Somebody get this worm a Substack and a mushroom tincture sponsorship immediately.

And listen. I support therapy. I support exercise. I support nutrition. I support sunlight. I support community. I support emotional healing. I support every exhausted woman named Jen crying in Pilates and then recovering with a lavender oat milk latte and a good therapist named Diane who wears interesting scarves.

But what these people are proposing has the energy of a man arriving at a four-alarm apartment fire holding cucumber water and saying, “Have we explored journaling?”

Sir. People are not anxious because they forgot to do yoga.

People are anxious because America currently feels like riding a shopping cart downhill through a fireworks factory while billionaires livestream motivational quotes at us from private jets.

And now the Department of Health and Human Services feels less like a federal agency and more like whatever happens when a wellness influencer lets a brainworm run the HOA.

Nobody is taking Lexapro recreationally, Bradley.

Nobody’s sitting around at brunch going, “Ooooh, babe, pass the mimosas and the emergency serotonin stabilizers. Let’s get CRAZY.”

These medications help people function while living through nonstop economic panic, healthcare chaos, climate dread, algorithmic outrage, and the daily experience of opening your phone to discover another sweaty cabinet official explaining away another deeply weird friendship with Jeffrey Epstein.

Because while Dr. Wiggles was upstairs redecorating the nation’s serotonin receptors with reclaimed barn wood and podcast jargon, Howard “Human Moisture Event” Lutnick spent the day in a closed congressional interview trying to explain why his relationship timeline with Jeffrey Epstein keeps changing more often than a teenager’s Spotify aesthetic.

Apparently, the man who publicly claimed years ago that he severed ties after one unsettling encounter is now having to explain continued contact years later, including social invitations, business overlap, and the tiny, inconvenient detail of visiting Epstein’s private island for lunch in 2012.

Which is already a rough sentence structurally.

Nothing good has ever followed the phrase “private island lunch with Jeffrey Epstein.” That phrase alone sounds like the opening scene of a documentary narrated entirely by ominous cello music.

Lawmakers reportedly walked out of the hearing looking like they’d just watched somebody attempt to explain a missing Fabergé egg with a PowerPoint titled “Technically Define Missing.”

One described Lutnick as evasive.
Another described him as nervous.
Another essentially implied the whole thing looked like a middle manager trying to lie his way through a corporate HR seminar after forgetting there were witnesses.

And naturally, the interview was not videotaped because apparently, transparency now means “trust me, bro” delivered by men visibly sweating through expensive tailoring under fluorescent lighting.

One lawmaker reportedly said the whole thing was so embarrassing that if Grandpa Cheesebrain had watched the footage, Lutnick might’ve been fired before the valet retrieved the car.

Another basically accused him of twisting himself into grammatical pretzels, trying to redefine reality in real time.

At this point, every Epstein-related hearing feels less like government oversight and more like watching raccoons drag a cursed filing cabinet through a Chili’s parking lot while yelling “THIS IS FINE” into a leaf blower.

And then, because America is now legally required to add one extra scoop of chaos to every news cycle, a purported handwritten Epstein note became public today. Friends. FRIENDS. This thing reportedly contains enough exclamation points to look like a Facebook rant typed by a man arguing with a Cracker Barrel hostess about the biscuit policy.

The internet immediately stared at it the way archaeologists stare at cursed tombs.

Because the phrasing reportedly sounds so bizarrely performative and melodramatic that half the country reacted like, “This reads less like a private note and more like somebody angrily live-posting from the comments section of a boat dealership.”

Nothing arrives normally anymore.
Nothing.

Every headline now feels AI-generated by caffeinated ferrets trapped in an abandoned RadioShack.

And somehow, during all this, Dr. Wiggles the Brainworm has apparently concluded Americans are simply too medicated instead of correctly identifying that the entire population has been emotionally marinating in stress hormones for a decade.

The average American nervous system right now sounds like dial-up internet trying to contact heaven.

Here’s the thing nobody in power seems to understand: you cannot “mindfulness” your way out of systemic instability. You cannot magnesium-gummy an entire population back into emotional balance while the country feels like a casino elevator stuck between floors.

That’s the part that keeps getting skipped.

People are not exhausted because society has become weak.

People are exhausted because existence currently feels like assembling IKEA furniture during an earthquake while twelve oligarchs scream contradictory instructions through podcast microphones and a worm named Dr. Wiggles whispers “have you tried magnesium?” directly into the Department of Health and Human Services.

America right now is basically one giant emotional support group project where the group leaders keep setting the instructions on fire.

Honestly, if these people come for caffeine next, I’m done. Finished. You’ll find me living behind a Barnes & Noble café, surviving entirely on espresso foam and spite, muttering “Dr. Wiggles can pry this cold brew from my emotionally regulated hands” while purchasing journals I’ll never actually write in.

-Me

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Disclaimer, Because Apparently, This Is Now Necessary:
This letter is opinion, commentary, satire, and historical observation, written for expressive and educational purposes and protected under the First Amendment of the United States Constitution. It reflects my personal views, interpretations, and concerns regarding current events. It is not a call to action, not legal advice, not operational guidance, and not an endorsement of violence, harm, or unlawful behavior of any kind.

If this writing makes you uncomfortable, offended, or unusually defensive, that reaction is worth sitting with. Possibly over coffee.

© 2026. All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced, redistributed, or republished in whole or in part without permission. Opinions are mine. Facts are stubborn. Coffee is essential. Democracy is non-negotiable.