I’ve been seeing videos all over the internet about how bad the economy is. Everything is too expensive. Nobody can afford a house. Nobody can afford children. Nobody can pay off their student loans. The rich are fucking everybody. The system is rigged. We’re all slaves.
Blah, blah, blah.
The usual doom-and-gloom bullshit from people who think we’re living on a prison planet with no way out.
Here’s the funny thing: they’re right. We do live on a prison planet. I just think a lot of people voluntarily walked into the fucking prison.
I Used to Be a Doomer Too
Don’t get me wrong—I’m not denying reality. Inflation is real. The cost of living is getting ridiculous. Housing is expensive as hell. And the people at the top of the pyramid have absolutely figured out how to squeeze everybody underneath them while getting richer in the process. I understand why people are pissed. I used to be one of them.
I was the guy posting conspiracy theories on social media, trying to “wake everybody up.” LOOK AT THE PRISON WALLS. LOOK AT WHAT THEY’RE DOING TO US. WAKE UP, SHEEPLE. I was a real party pooper.
Then one day I realized something that made most of my doomer worldview completely useless: for a lot of people, the prison is optional. Especially if you had the enormous privilege of being born in a developed country with access to clean water, electricity, libraries, the internet, and enough freedom to choose what you do with your life. You weren’t born inside the prison. You signed yourself into it.
Nobody Forced You to Sign That Shit
Look at what the doomers are actually complaining about.
- “My car payment is killing me.” — Who bought the car?
- “My mortgage is killing me.” — Who signed the mortgage?
- “Daycare costs a fortune.” — Who made the baby?
- “My student loans are destroying me.” — Who borrowed the money?
- “My credit cards are maxed out.” — Who swiped the fucking cards?
At some point, personal accountability has to enter the conversation. Nobody kicked down your door, put a gun to your head, and forced you to finance a $50,000 vehicle. Nobody forced you to buy a house you couldn’t afford or borrow a small fortune for a degree. You signed the paperwork. You put your own name on the f’ing contract. Then the bill arrived and suddenly it’s society’s fault.
Maybe I sound like the bad guy. Fine. I’d rather sound like the bad guy than spend the rest of my life pretending grown adults have zero responsibility for decisions they voluntarily made.
The Prison Has Really Nice Landscaping
Here’s the genius of the whole operation: the prison doesn’t look like a prison. It looks like success. It looks like the American Dream.
Can’t afford a new car? No problem—drive it home TODAY, just sign here and promise us a piece of your paycheck for the next five to seven years. Can’t afford the big beautiful house? Why live with your parents? Why have roommates? Why save? Why wait? You deserve it now. Just sign here. Thirty years.
Want the college experience? Sign here. The wedding? Sign here. The furniture? Sign here. The vacation? Sign here.
Every time you sign, another bar goes up around your life. Eventually you wake up one morning with a beautiful house, beautiful car, beautiful degree on the wall, beautiful children, beautiful furniture—and absolutely no fucking freedom. Congratulations. Your prison cell looks fantastic.
You Chose the Shiny Piece of Shit
Life constantly puts two things in front of you. One looks like a piece of shit but might actually be gold. The other looks like gold but is actually a piece of shit covered in shiny paint.
Living with roommates at 30? Looks like shit. Having $100,000 in the bank? Gold. Driving a 15-year-old hoopty? Looks like shit. Having no car payment? Gold. Living somewhere unfashionable because the rent is dirt cheap? Looks like shit. Being able to tell your boss to fuck off because your monthly expenses are almost nothing? That’s gold.
Meanwhile—a luxury apartment you can barely afford? Painted shit. New car eating 20% of your paycheck? Painted shit. Expensive degree that didn’t dramatically increase your earning power? Painted shit. $30,000 wedding financed on credit cards? Shit with glitter on top.
What did Smash Mouth say? All that glitters is gold? Yeah right.
And Yes, That Includes Children
Here’s where some people are going to get really pissed off: children cost money. Lots of it. And nobody is forcing you to procreate. Having children is an enormous financial responsibility. Wanting one doesn’t magically make you able to afford one. If you’re already drowning financially and voluntarily add another human being who depends entirely on you for survival, don’t act shocked when your finances get worse.
“But having children is my dream!” Cool. Can you afford your dream? Because dreams still cost money. I would love a Toyota Supra—that doesn’t mean Toyota owes me one because it makes me happy. If the thought of paying for diapers, healthcare, food, childcare, housing, clothing, and everything else gives you financial anxiety, maybe that’s your clue that you’re not ready yet. Wait. Earn more. Spend less. Prepare. Then reproduce.
Stay the Fuck Out
My rule has always been simple: don’t go into debt. If I can’t afford it, I can’t afford it. End of story. I’d rather drive a hoopty that belongs to me than a Mercedes that belongs to a bank. I’d rather have roommates and money than granite countertops and anxiety. I’d rather live in a shitty neighborhood with freedom than an expensive neighborhood where missing two paychecks puts a FOR SALE sign in my front yard.
And don’t automatically spend a fortune on college because somebody told you that’s what successful people do. If you want to become a brain surgeon or enter another profession that actually requires credentials, obviously go to school. But it’s 2026. We have libraries, YouTube, online courses, AI, books, mentors, and basically the accumulated knowledge of human civilization sitting in our pockets. Don’t borrow $100,000 for information you could’ve gotten for $100 just because one version comes with a piece of paper.
Keep your cost of living stupidly low. Get roommates. Move farther away. Move to the ghetto. Move to the countryside. Move to another country if you have to. Don’t get married because your mom wants grandchildren. Don’t buy a house because somebody told you renting means you’re “throwing money away.” Stop asking what am I supposed to have at my age? and start asking what will this cost me in freedom?
And when people laugh at you for it—and they will—let them. Seriously, let them laugh their asses off. Because some of those same people are going to spend the next twenty years waking up to an alarm clock, sitting in traffic, working a job they hate, making payments on shit they don’t own, and counting down the days until their one-week vacation. Then they’ll open TikTok and make a video about how the system trapped them.
Meanwhile, the “loser” with the shitty apartment and paid-off hoopty can pack his shit and disappear tomorrow.
Who’s the loser now?
The Prison Is Real. Stop Volunteering for It.
I’m not saying everybody’s problems are self-inflicted—obviously they’re not. Some people get sick. Some people are born into horrible circumstances. Some people get fucked by divorce, layoffs, accidents, governments, or plain old bad luck. Life can fuck you without asking permission. That’s exactly why I don’t understand voluntarily making yourself more fragile. Why pile another 30-year obligation onto a life that’s already unpredictable? Why deliberately make your life more expensive? Why handcuff yourself before life even gets the chance?
The system may very well be designed to screw you. Stop making its job so damn easy.
Stay cheap. Stay flexible. Stay patient. Alchemize the suck. Keep your expenses low, spend your time building something valuable, and eventually the tables start to turn. The hoopty doesn’t matter anymore. The shitty apartment doesn’t matter anymore. The years people spent laughing at you don’t matter anymore—because you’ve accumulated something they can’t finance.
Freedom.
And one day, some of the prisoners are going to walk up to the fence and ask how the hell you got out there. Pull up a chair. Smile. And let them know:
That information is going to cost them $$$.