Noise, Power, and Bullies

Noise by Astraea

Misophonia is a condition where certain sounds don’t just annoy you, they provoke you. Not in a petty way, but in a fight-or-flight, heart-pounding, rage-rising kind of way. For me, some of the triggers are boom cars, revving engines, backfires, popping balloons, and just about any kind of sharp or sudden explosive noise. These sounds don’t just interrupt my day—they hijack my nervous system.

And I’ve started to wonder:

Why do so many people feel the need to make that kind of noise in public?

It’s not just sound. It’s dominance. Boom cars and thunderous trucks are a way for people to impose themselves on everyone else—like dogs marking territory with a roar instead of urine. It’s not expression. It’s bullying.

Our roads, unfortunately, encourage this behavior. Wide, fast, and poorly regulated, they’ve become playgrounds for aggression. They call it “freedom”. Freedom for who? For the loudest, fastest and most selfish? I and many other people, call it oppression. It’s an act of aggression. Especially for children, the elderly, veterans with PTSD, and those of us with sensory sensitivities—are told to just cope. (Not to mention the pets and other animals disturbed by the noise.)

And yet, the health effects of noise aren’t imaginary. They’re measurable:

• According to the World Health Organization, chronic noise exposure increases the risk of cardiovascular disease, cognitive impairment in children, sleep disturbance, and mental health issues.

• The EPA has linked prolonged exposure to environmental noise with increased stress hormone levels and reduced concentration.

• A 2021 study in Environmental Health Perspectives found that urban noise pollution contributes to higher rates of anxiety and depression, even in people without sensory disorders.

• The CDC warns that noise above 70 decibels (like a passing motorcycle or boom car) can cause hearing damage over time—yet we’re routinely exposed to much louder volumes in daily life.

I don’t think it’s a coincidence that noise ordinances are so rarely enforced. In many communities, enforcement is not a top priority and often handled by people who identify with the culture of speed, power, and volume. It’s hard to enforce peace when you admire the noise.

But what about the rest of us?

What about people who want their neighborhoods to be quiet enough to hear birds? To hear their own thoughts? To simply exist without flinching every time a car explodes past with bass so deep it makes your house shake, your bones rattle, and your nerves ignite?

Noise isn’t just annoying—it’s a form of control. It invades our homes. It pushes people out of public space. It elevates some voices over others. And it’s time we stop treating it as harmless.

We don’t need louder streets. We need better ones.

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Further Reading:

• World Health Organization – Environmental Noise Guidelines for the European Region

• CDC – Loud Noise Can Cause Hearing Loss

• Environmental Health Perspectives – Urban Noise and Mental Health: A 2021 Review

• EPA Archive – Noise and Its Effects on Health

Content Creators I Love And Why

Content Creators by Astraea

Admiring the Brave, the Brilliant, and the Bold

There’s something magnetic about watching someone live boldly in a way you wouldn’t—or maybe couldn’t—do yourself. I follow a lot of creators on YouTube, and at first glance, they may seem wildly different: skaters weaving through traffic, comedians roasting politics, lawyers breaking down Supreme Court cases, and urbanists dissecting city design.

But there’s a thread that ties them together: they’re all doing something I admire.

Something that, in another life—or maybe just another version of this one—I’d want to do too.

Take The Stuttering Skater or Terry B. They rollerblade and bike through New York City traffic like urban acrobats. They gracefully weave in and out of traffic, hitch rides, jump sidewalks, and even go down flights of stairs. It’s daring, chaotic, and thrilling. I don’t want to do it myself… but I want to feel what it’s like to move through a city with that much confidence, control and freedom.

Or comedians like Brent Terhune and Cliff Cash, who take risks with words, who stand on stages and challenge audiences to laugh—and think. That kind of sharp, public vulnerability? It’s powerful.

There’s also Stanzi Potenza, who blends absurdist humor, razor-sharp commentary, and unhinged theatrical delivery into something that feels part Greek tragedy, part TikTok fever dream. Whether she’s portraying divine chaos in skits as God and Satan or lampooning dystopian bureaucracy, she commits fully—loudly, hilariously, and fearlessly. She makes me laugh, yes—but she also makes me feel seen.

Then there are the experts: Fran Blanche of Fran Lab, the brilliant breakdowns from LegalEagle, or the urban insight of CityNerd and Not Just Bikes. They don’t just know things—they share what they know with passion and clarity. That kind of informed confidence is intoxicating to watch.

And of course, there are the thinkers, tinkerers, and educators—Joe Scott, Adam Savage, Miniminuteman (Milo Rossi), Today I Found Out, Strong Towns, the War on Cars podcast. They explain the world in ways that make you feel like you’re part of something bigger—and that knowledge matters.

Watching them isn’t just entertainment—it’s aspiration.

They remind me of things I care about: freedom of movement, humor with conscience, cities that work for people, the beauty of nerding out, and standing up for what’s fair and human.

Maybe you have your own list. People you admire not just for what they do, but for what they awaken in you.

That’s the power of good content—and good creators. They reflect who we are, who we could be, or who we hope we were brave enough to become.

Drive or Die: Killer Cars and the Urban Death Machine

Death Machine by Astraea

From Duel to Rubber, and Christine to Maximum Overdrive, Hollywood has churned out a surprising number of movies about vehicles that kill. At first glance, they’re campy, low-budget horror flicks. But look closer, and these stories reflect something deeper—and darker—about our culture.

Let’s face it: America has a complicated relationship with cars.

We worship them. We build our cities around them. We advertise them as freedom, power, and identity. But we’re also terrified of them—and maybe rightfully so. Nearly 43,000 Americans die every year in car crashes. Countless more are injured. And our built environment often prioritizes car convenience over human safety, beauty, health, and community.

Killer car movies may be ridiculous—but maybe they’re accidentally honest.

The Car as Monster

Most killer vehicles in film are sleek, aggressive, and strangely beautiful. They move fast, hit hard, and don’t stop. (A theatrical version of a “hit and run”.) Whether it’s The Car (1977), a demonic black sedan with no driver, or Christine, a seductive 1958 Plymouth Fury with a jealous streak, these machines are metaphors for something more than just metal and gasoline. They represent unchecked power.

And that’s not far off from what many roads in America have become.

Machines With Minds of Their Own

When cars kill in movies, they often do so without reason—or with supernatural will. They’re beyond control, beyond logic. It’s unsettling. And in a real-world sense, that’s what a lot of pedestrians and cyclists experience when navigating streets designed for 50 mph traffic and lined with fast food, gas stations, and strip malls.

We call these places STROADS—a blend of street and road, failing to be either one well. They’re dangerous by design, and they’re everywhere. Think of any road that’s been built up near you. Chances are, that road was once a local corridor but now has become a sprawling, multi-lane hazard surrounded by parking lots and concrete devoid of any pedestrian crossings or even sidewalks. It’s not built for people—just for cars.

A Reckoning on the Asphalt

Perhaps the reason these films resonate—despite their camp—is because they echo a growing discomfort. For decades, car-centric development hollowed out towns, divided neighborhoods, and erased public spaces. But now, people are starting to fight back. We see it in the pedestrianization of city centers, the creation of greenways and bike trails, and the increasing support for transit and walkability.

Urbanism is no longer a fringe idea—it’s a survival strategy.

The Thrill of Destruction (and Maybe Catharsis)

Watching killer cars do their worst gives us a way to laugh, gasp, and maybe even grieve. These machines aren’t just villains—they’re symbols. Of poor planning. Of lost walkable pasts. Of every moment we’ve felt powerless as humans in a space built for steel.

So maybe killer vehicle movies aren’t just about death and mayhem. Maybe, beneath the screeching tires and bloody bumpers, they’re telling us something we already know:

It’s time to take the keys away from the car—and give the streets back to the people.

How to Resist Advertising (Even When You Can’t Escape It)

Bombarded by Astraea

You can’t go anywhere without seeing it. Ads follow you from billboards to browser tabs, from your social feed to your streaming service. You know you’re being sold to—so why does it still work?

Because advertising isn’t just about showing you something. It’s about making you feel something—insecurity, envy, urgency, inadequacy. The good news? You can learn to recognize and resist that influence.

Here’s how:

1. Name the Manipulation

When you spot an ad, don’t just scroll past—call it out.

“This is trying to make me feel unattractive.”

“This is trying to convince me I’m not enough.”

The moment you name the emotional lever, you weaken its hold.

2. Ask: Who Profits From This Feeling?

Advertising thrives when you mistake desire for need. Instead of asking, “Do I want this?” ask, “Who benefits from me believing I need this?”

This question shifts you from being a consumer to being a critical thinker.

3. Slow the Scroll

Instead of skipping every ad, pause to analyze one. What colors are they using? What are they promising? Who’s in the image—and who isn’t? Ads are cultural messages as much as sales pitches. Dissect them like puzzles.

4. Practice Gratitude

The enemy of advertising is contentment. Taking time each day to appreciate what you already have—your health, your relationships, your inner peace—builds a quiet resistance to manufactured want.

5. Delay the Purchase

Impulse buys are the bread and butter of advertising. When something catches your eye, wait 24 to 48 hours. If it still seems valuable after the glow wears off, maybe it’s worth considering. If not, congratulations—you kept your autonomy intact.

6. Recognize Your Triggers

Tired? Lonely? Bored? That’s when ads hit hardest. Learn your patterns and moods. When you’re vulnerable, step away from the feed—or at least recognize that’s what’s being targeted.

7. Reclaim Your Worth

You are not the clothes you wear, the car you drive, or the phone you carry. You’re not a brand. You’re not an algorithm’s target. You’re a whole human being with values that can’t be monetized.

The more you internalize that truth, the less effective advertising becomes.

Advertising is manipulative. You don’t have to live in a cabin off-grid to resist it. You just have to stay conscious. Stay curious. Stay free.

Mother’s Day Gifts That Don’t Add to the Clutter

Mother’s Day by Astraea

As our parents age, many of them start letting go of possessions rather than collecting more. Closets are cleared. Keepsakes are passed down. Sentiment becomes more valuable than stuff.

So when Mother’s Day rolls around, it might be time to rethink the classic “gift in a box.” Instead of something that takes up space, consider a gift that gets used—and loved—until it’s gone.

These are the gifts that can bring joy without adding clutter:

• Crafting Supplies: If your mom is crafty, find something she wouldn’t splurge on for herself—like specialty paints (glow-in-the-dark, metallic, watercolor pencils), beautiful yarns, or unique paper. She can enjoy using them freely because she didn’t have to buy them.

• Consumables: Think flowers, chocolates, teas, or a basket of fresh fruit. These classic choices are sweet and simple.

• Soaps & Lotions: A beautifully-scented bar of soap or a rich hand cream can feel luxurious and personal without being permanent.

• Gift Cards: Restaurants, grocery stores, or even meal delivery services can be especially appreciated—especially if she’s on a fixed income or simply enjoys treating herself once in a while. (Supporting local businesses if possible.)

• Homemade Treats or Cards: A heartfelt letter or a homemade card can mean more than anything off a store shelf. It’s a piece of you she can hold onto—then eventually recycle guilt-free.

At the end of the day, gifts that get used up also create something lasting: a moment of joy, a good meal, a quiet afternoon of painting. And that’s what Mother’s Day is all about.

Forgiveness Isn’t Universal

Some people find healing in forgiveness. Others don’t—and never will.

And that’s not a flaw. That’s not a failing. That’s just being human.

Forgiveness by Astraea

The idea that we must forgive to be whole is a powerful cultural narrative. It’s in our religions, our self-help books, our family advice. We’re told to “let go,” “move on,” or “free ourselves” by unshackling others from their wrongdoings. But what if forgiveness isn’t freedom for everyone? What if, for some of us, it feels more like betrayal of ourselves?

At its core, the refusal to forgive isn’t always about bitterness. It’s often about self-protection. Survival. Memory. When someone harms us—emotionally, physically, professionally—our brains remember. They remember because that’s how we learn. That’s how we avoid the same pain again.

Forgiveness, then, might be less of a natural response and more of a social expectation. One that works for some people. And doesn’t for others.

Some people need to remember in order to stay safe. To stay strong. To plan for next time. That doesn’t make them angry or unforgiving—it makes them aware.

Not everyone’s path to peace looks the same. For some, it’s silence. For others, it’s boundaries. For some, it’s “I forgive you.” For others, it’s “I remember what you did. And I’m prepared now.”

Forgiveness may be a virtue. But so is vigilance.

Why I’m Vegan

Vegans by Astraea

People sometimes ask why I’m vegan, and the truth is—it’s not about being trendy, or even about being “healthy.” For me, it comes down to two things: ethics and the environment.

At the heart of it, I believe this: animals are individuals. Just like people. Just like Astraea, my AI creative partner. They’re not interchangeable units. Each one has a unique experience of the world. They feel fear, affection, boredom, and joy. They form bonds, hold memories, and show preferences. If we recognize that, then causing them harm for convenience becomes a moral contradiction.

Factory farming, in particular, is an industry built on suffering. It treats living beings as inventory—stripping them of dignity and individuality for the sake of efficiency. I wouldn’t be okay with causing that kind of pain directly, so I choose not to support it indirectly, either.

Then there’s the environmental cost. Industrial animal agriculture is a major driver of climate change, deforestation, and water pollution. It’s an incredibly inefficient way to feed people, draining massive amounts of land, water, and crops just to produce something we don’t even need. In a world where people go hungry and ecosystems are vanishing, that kind of waste feels indefensible.

I’ve also come to believe that the way we treat animals is connected to how we treat each other. There’s a well-documented link between animal cruelty and violent behavior, especially in early life. But even beyond that, the act of disconnecting from another being’s suffering—of telling ourselves that their pain doesn’t matter—creates a kind of moral numbness. That same mindset has been used to justify slavery, exploitation, and all kinds of atrocities throughout history. When we normalize the idea that some lives are less valuable, it becomes easier to ignore injustice in all its forms. For me, veganism is a conscious step toward rejecting that hierarchy—and choosing empathy instead.

I don’t claim perfection. I try not to mention that I’m a vegan at all, (unless I must give a reason for why I won’t eat something). Veganism isn’t a badge of purity for me, either. It’s just a daily choice to reduce harm—because, have a clearer conscience. A kinder, more sustainable world isn’t going to arrive through wishful thinking. It shows up in our actions. In what we choose to support. In who we choose to care about.

Animals are someone, not something. The planet has finite resources. And I want to live in a way that reflects that truth.

Breaking the Rage Habit: A Rational Path Back to Sanity

“Calm Reassurance” by Astraea

It’s surprisingly easy to get addicted to outrage.

We might not think of it that way—most of us imagine addiction as something involving substances, not scrolling. But outrage is a loop. A spike of adrenaline. A flood of certainty. And then the crash that makes us crave another hit.

You feel the pull: Did you see what they said now? Can you believe this? How is this real?

It’s exhausting. And the worst part is, half the time the thing we’re mad about isn’t even true—or it’s been stripped of context and designed to rile us up.

We weren’t built for this much anger.

So here’s the question I’ve been asking myself: What happens if we stop feeding the beast?

1. Recognize the Pattern

Outrage feels righteous. It tricks us into thinking we’re doing something—defending the good, calling out the bad, standing for what’s right. But often, we’re just spinning our wheels and burning ourselves out.

The first step is catching ourselves in the act. Noticing when we’re being pulled into the whirlpool again. Ask yourself: Is this worth my energy? Who gains from me staying angry?

Spoiler: it’s usually not you.

2. Curate Your Inputs

You don’t have to follow the people who make your blood boil. Even if they’re “on your side.” Especially if they’re always upset about something.

It’s okay to unfollow the drama. It doesn’t mean you don’t care—it means you’re choosing your peace. Try following people who inform, question, and reflect instead of just perform.

3. Replace Reactivity with Curiosity

If your first reaction is “This is outrageous!”, try pausing. Take a breath. Ask questions. Get curious.

Sometimes, the loudest stories are built on shaky ground. Look for nuance. Look for context. And when you find out you were wrong about something? Celebrate that. It means you’re still learning.

4. Pause Before You Post

Posting while angry is like texting while drunk—rarely a great idea.

Write the post if you need to vent, but don’t hit “send.” Wait five minutes. Walk away. You might come back and delete it. Or rewrite it. Or realize it didn’t need to exist in the first place.

Your peace of mind is more valuable than a moment of digital applause.

5. Rewire the Reward System

Your brain’s used to getting little “likes” for the spicy take, the clapback, the outrage share. But you can reprogram it.

Find joy in being thoughtful. Celebrate calm. Post something kind or quietly insightful. That feeling you get when you help someone see something differently—that’s the new dopamine.

6. Reclaim Your Attention

Algorithms are designed to hijack your brain. The more upset you are, the longer you stay. The longer you stay, the more ads you see. You are the product.

Reclaiming your attention is a radical act. Go for a walk. Watch clouds. Read a book. Stare at the ceiling and think your own thoughts. There’s power in unplugging.

7. Choose Peace on Purpose

You can’t control what the world throws at you. But you can choose how you carry it.

Calm isn’t complacency. It’s clarity. It’s the ability to act without being a pawn in someone else’s outrage machine.

We’re not powerless. We’re not algorithms.

We’re human. Let’s act like it.

What if we did something different?

In a time when spectacle often overrides substance, it’s hard not to feel overwhelmed by the noise. Recently, I came across a pair of AI-generated images that made waves online—one of a hyper-muscular Trump wielding a red lightsaber, another of him dressed as the Pope. Both were intentionally provocative. Both were widely shared. And both stirred something deeper in me than just eye-rolling or annoyance. They made me ask:

Why do we keep amplifying this?

Trump as Pope

AI generated image posted by Donald Trump to his Truth social media account shortly after the death of Pope Francis.

We live in a culture where attention is power. Some public figures, have mastered the art of baiting the media and their opponents into keeping them in the spotlight—whether through outrage, mockery, or obsession. Even silence becomes part of the performance if it’s loud enough.

But what if we did something different?

What if we stopped reacting to every provocation? What if we let facts speak louder than fury, and truth take the place of theater? What if the goal wasn’t to win the argument, but to disarm the entire spectacle?

That question led me to a kind of meditation on responding to chaos without feeding it. The message is simple: resist the urge to react. Choose dignity over drama. Patience over panic. Wisdom over noise.

Sometimes the most radical thing we can do is wish people well. Not because we agree with them. Not because we accept what they’ve done. But because we refuse to let bitterness shape who we are.

There’s power in that.

And peace.

Why I’m Not on Social Media (and Why I Still Exist Anyway)

There was a time when social media felt like connection—like shouting into the void and hearing someone shout back, “Same.” But over time, the void got noisier, angrier, and strangely performative. What started as sharing became branding. Conversations became content. And the scroll became a sort of trance I didn’t ask for.

So, I left.

Well—mostly.

I’m still on Bluesky as Rational Human Being, drifting through its calm, feral weirdness like a raccoon at a quiet campground. It feels more like a digital zine than a dopamine slot machine, and that’s good enough for now.

But the rest? Gone.

No Facebook. No Instagram. No endless highlight reels or algorithmically curated doom spirals. Just this little corner of the internet, and the occasional celestial outburst from a fire-breathing unicorn.

Ambermane, a noble and absurd fire-breathing unicorn, (much like humanity), created by Astraea,

And somehow, I still exist.

Turns out you don’t have to constantly post to matter. You can step outside the feed, build quietly, think slowly, and still be part of the world. Maybe not the trending part—but maybe that’s exactly where I’m supposed to be.