THE SCOURGE OF THE INTERNET
It always starts the same way.
I keep crawling back to social media, even though I know damn well it’s poison. I do it anyway.
I toss out a couple harmless comments. Maybe a joke, maybe a post. Just enough to spark the fuse and watch it burn.
And before I know it, I’m knee-deep in the same toxic shit I promised myself I’d stay away from.
This time, it was some woman making jokes about training to punch Nazis. Honestly, I get it.
Funny. Topical. Cathartic.
I jumped in, said what everyone already knows: Nazis act tough online, but in real life, they fold faster than a cheap lawn chair at a family reunion.
They puff up behind a screen, but the second you drag them into the sunlight, they wilt.
But, as always, the comments followed.
“You’re always calling us Nazis.” (I never called anyone anything. Some people just accepted that moniker, thinking I was talking about them. Interesting, eh?)
“Retard.”
“Fag.”
Mom jokes. Because of course. Real fucking original.
Same tired script, different day.
Then the temperature changed. One message flipped the switch.
A man told me how he was going to kill me and where he’d dump my body.
Another hinted at gas chambers and “cleansing.”
Now it wasn’t just hate anymore. It was logistics. Step-by-step instructions on how to ruin my life, like they were following a recipe.
That’s when it stopped being just internet noise and turned into something a hell of a lot darker.
So I did what I always do: block, report, mute. But then their usernames started popping up more. Liking old posts. Sending me photos of my own damn apartment building. Finding me on other platforms. I had to lock everything down just to breathe.
That’s not trolling.
That’s not trolling. That’s intimidation, plain and simple.
So I fired back. Called them what they are: extremists. Didn’t sugarcoat a damn thing.
And of course, the almighty algorithm decided I was the problem and slapped me with a ban. Because that’s how it works.
“Bullying.”
Funny how the threats get ignored, but the second you call out the bullshit, you’re the one in trouble.
WHAT DO YOU DO WITH THAT?
You can’t confront these people head-on. Not really.
But you can’t ignore them either. They feed on silence. They love it.
They’re like Mario Bros. ghosts—only moving when you look away.
So you either keep your eyes glued to them or risk getting steamrolled.
Remember when the local conspiracy nut just sat at the bar, muttering into his beer?
Now he’s running for Congress.
He wears a flag pin and quotes scripture.
He’s got a podcast and a donor base.
He’s not crazy Uncle Joe—he’s Congressman Joe.
There used to be a line between crazy and normal. That line’s gone. Blown to hell.
THE REAL QUESTION
How do we send them back to the shadows?
How do you de-platform hate when hate is the platform?
I don’t have an answer.
All I know is being polite won’t fix a system built on hate. Civility is a band-aid on a bullet wound.
All I know is the internet was supposed to connect us, but now it just shoves us further apart, feeding us hate and fear like it’s candy.
And somewhere out there, some asshole with bad intentions is scrolling through my photos right now.
So I write.
Because it’s the only way I know to bleed out the poison without turning it inward.
If I don’t, the rage festers. It turns septic. And I refuse to let that shit rot me from the inside out.
And I refuse to stay silent.
But the marketing side of the internet? The part where we’re all supposed to sell ourselves? That’s like tossing a Tide Pod into a septic tank and calling it clean.
