AN OPEN LETTER TO AMERICA

Happy Birthday, You Glorious, Gaslit Disaster

Look at you, America. Two hundred forty-nine years old and still waking up with glitter in your hair, trillions of dollars in debt, and a fascist squatting in your democracy like a hemorrhoid that learned how to lie.

You were born screaming through clenched teeth and broken chains.
You are civil disobedience in powdered wigs and whiskey breath.
And now? Now you’re stuck in a toxic relationship with a bloated ex-president who thinks the Bible is a business card and the nuclear codes are collectible NFTs.

It’s time to stop crying in the driveway.

It’s time to get back in the driver’s seat — and maybe metaphorically slash a few tires on the way out.

WHAT THE HELL IS CIVIL DISOBEDIENCE?

Civil disobedience is what happens when good people get sick of watching the powerful jerk off to their own immunity. It means disrupting, not begging. It means sitting down, not shutting up. It means breaking rules that were written to break you.

It’s not violence. It’s strategic inconvenience.

It’s not chaos. It’s precision sabotage of unjust order.

We will not ask politely while they auction off our rights.

We will not wait quietly while they drown the planet for stock dividends.

We will not “go high” when they’re bulldozing the fucking floor.

We will sit down in airports.

We will block Wall Street with thousands of concerned citizens.

We will fill intersections with drag queens, veterans, students, and pissed-off moms holding signs made from pizza boxes and heartbreak.

We will incommode, inconvenience, and incite consciousness — until they either listen, resign, or wet themselves on live TV.

WHY CROSS THE LINE?

Because the line is bullshit.

They keep moving it.

They redrew it in blood.

They wrapped it in flags and barbed wire and said, “Freedom’s over there — trust us.”

We’re done trusting.

The line was never sacred. It was just strategic compliance wrapped in red, white, and gaslighting.

So we cross the line because we built the road beneath it.

We cross it because Jefferson was a drunk, but he was right:

When the laws become cages, the cage must be rattled.

And if they don’t like the noise, they can shove their gavel up their originalist ass.

AMERICA, YOU ARE NOT A HOSTAGE

You are not Trump's plaything.

You are not the Supreme Court's clerical error.

You are not a mood swing in a Fox News segment.

You are a dangerous idea with great hair.

You are a protest song that refuses to fade out.

You are the reason power has to lie to sleep at night.

So take your body. Take your voice.
And take them into the street, into the boardroom, into the Capitol rotunda, into the courtroom, into every place they told you you didn’t belong — and fucking belong there anyway.

AND IF THEY’RE SCARED?

Good.

They should be.

Because you’re not alone. You’re not unarmed.

You’re carrying truth, solidarity, a six-foot banner that says “Fuck Around and Find Out,” and enough righteous rage to melt the paint off Air Force One.

We’re done asking nicely.

We’re done explaining why we deserve to live.

And if this country goes down swinging, it will not be for a bloated orange man with the emotional range of a toddler and the tiny, quivering hands of a disgraced mall Santa caught shoplifting his own perfume.

Happy 249th, America.

You were born in rebellion.

Act like it.

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We’re not backed by billionaires. We’re backed by rage, wit, and the belief that the fight for democracy should be louder than Trump’s ego and sharper than the knife he’s holding behind his back.

This isn’t a newsletter. It’s a call to arms — peaceful, principled, and fucking relentless.

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