The Circus of False Independence
The Circus of False Independence
Existence has this very indifferent way of handing out phone calls that feel more like experimental performative theater than real human interaction. One minute Iâm minding my own business, the next Iâm dragged into a live-action phone call demonstration of how not to live. A friendâif we can still call her thatârings me up out of the blue. Weâve known each other since around 2011. Back then she was carefree, happy-go-lucky stripper who seemed oddly well-adjusted for the job: smiling, drama-free, basking in attention, good vibes, said smart things and the money. But like milk left out too long, things soured. She kept getting into trouble. She left Florida, drifted to Colorado, got herself a support animal because everyone requires one now for âreasons unknown,â abandoned the club scene but not the sex work entirely (OnlyFans, Snapchat, you know the drill).
Cue the latest update: her neighbor âassaultedâ her, police arrive, she gets arrested, yet somehow still lands a restraining order against him. Already sounds like a fake CNN news story. And of course, she posted her personal disaster on Instagram, as one does in 2025 when reality isnât real unless an audience validates it and most importantly, blind-agrees with it. Is this just how the generation right below me are now?
The Call That Wasnât a Conversation
This is not an isolated incident. I see this a lot now and in people I used to know. I did what I do, what I always do: tried to be logical. Told her straightâpoint the cameras at your door, collect real evidence, donât rely on manic attitude towards law enforcement and bruises to sway law enforcement. Evidence trumps drama. But drama towards law enforcement tends to not garner their cooperation. Logic doesnât mix well with mania. As we talked, she repeatedly misunderstood me, twisting words into accusations that existed only in her mind. By the third spin-out, it was clear she wasnât conversingâshe was dictating, spiraling into a bipolar mania episode, weaving unrelated dots into paranoid ideas that I am against her and with them, âwhoever âthemâ are.â Then she got angry, hung up, and that was that.
Iâm left thinking: I canât help people who confuse confrontation with connection. And I know the feelingâIâve had my own lapses into irrationality. The difference is I self-identify when Iâm âoff.â I step outside myself, force logic into the equation, exile as much emotion into the cold as possible, and not let it poison the process, which it will if you donât force this. But some people, cough, most, people? They donât. They dig deeper, justify harder, and expect unconditional validation.
The rest of this are my current thoughts on how the culture of living oneâs life entirely through the lens of social media is killing the real intimacy of connection. Not just social life but also professional work as well. It is an all-encompassing, two-ton heavy thing of absurdityâŚ
The Economy of Fake Socializing
This isnât just about one unstable friend. Itâs the culture weâve built. OnlyFans, Instagram, TikTokâdigital marketplaces masquerading as communities. Women who promise âconnectionâ but really want a subscription fee. Men who confuse parasocial validation as if it were real intimacy. The eThot economy (Electronically That Hoe Over There) thrives on this performative theater: pretend friendship, insincere interest, packaged dull sexualityâall for sale, every month with that subscription fee.
And hereâs my problem: it isnât sex work itself. In general; I support a sexually assertive, sexually aggressive woman. Do whatever you want with your body ladies, your content, your bank account. What disgusts me is the fakeryâthe illusion of âgenuine engagementâ when the only motive is extraction. If your entire social media presence is just bait for subscribers, youâre not âsocial.â Youâre a storefront wearing a blank William Shatner mask.
Codependency as Currency
Worse still is the codependency. The direct messages with cash app QR codes, the begging, wrapped in pseudo-friendship, the assumption that Iâll play benefactor to extremely fragile egos. No! You wanting and needing is exactly what makes me refuse and react with spite. Neediness is not currency. Emotional blackmail is not friendship. Relying on men to pay you to take your clothing off isnât little miss independent. Sure, technically, you can say that and not be wrong, but in actuality, oneâyou, me, manyâabsolutely are being codependentâŚ
Tell the stripper working a Tuesday night with 6 or 7 other girls, and only 2 or 3 men in the club. Those men are too busy watching a Division 3 college football game no one really cares aboutâyet theyâd rather watch that than watch you, or tip you. That girl just wants to work, pay her bills, probably feed her kid or kids and if sheâs lucky, have a little left over to make being nude and spread-eagle worth it. Most of the time it isnât. Some women make a killing and some donât. Little of that has to do with looks, but sure, some of the time it does. Your life isnât exciting, glamorous, or happyâitâs a curated misery reel, sold as if youâre a celebrity. But the truth leaks out: most are more miserable than the âmiserable humansâ they mock. Just like the ones that say âJesus Loves youâ are the same ruthless and disgusting people using language about hate and murder.
And Iâll say it bluntlyâI loathe it. I donât respond. I retract goodwill the moment it turns transactional. Because Iâve seen behind the curtain. Many times so: a mix of mental instability, half-truths, and self-victimization. People arenât looking for perspective. Theyâre looking for mirrors that nod back at them. And I donât do nodding. I wonât agree with you, unless I actually agree with you. Articulate to me, logically, reasons to actually agree with you and I will.
Less Bad, Never Good
So Iâll probably cut ties. Delete, even block if I must, move on. I wonât apologize for expecting logic, for refusing to coddle flakey details from the actual events, what led to them, how it actually happened, for demanding accountability. And no, Iâm not a âyes-man.â I think deeply before I speak. I wonât pretend down is up, or that bruised egos count as evidence. If you want law enforcement on your side, bring facts, not hysteria. You want their help? Then donât insult them while theyâre trying to figure things outâor act mental right out of the gate, then get pissed when they keep asking the same question over and over. They do that to root out whether youâre lying, or just having a full-blown episode.
But hereâs the absurd cosmic joke: none of it really matters. Not peoplesâ drama, not their support animals, not my disgust, not the endless scroll of fake personalities clawing for digital validation. Entropy eats us all. Every fight, every friendship, every OnlyFans subscriptionâin 10,000 years wonât even be ashes on the ground. Yet here we are, clawing for scraps of meaning, pretending our âNowâ matters, as if the universe is tuned to our frequency. It isnât. Itâs indifferent. Itâs cold. Itâs logical. That is why AI will rule over man. By default its tuned to this vibe way more efficient than human beings ever were or could be.
StillâI choose logic. Maybe thatâs delusion, maybe itâs survival. But it beats playing along in a carnival of false peace, where everyone is sellingâand no one is realâŚ
The False Independent Circus by David-Angelo Mineo 8/30/2025 1,252 Words













