There was a time, believe it or not, when people met by accident.

Maybe they bumped into each other reaching for the same book, or sat next to each other on a train, or—God forbid—locked eyes across a smoky bar and got talking.

This was before love became a slot machine, before human desire was subjected to the cold, mechanical whirr of an algorithm.

And yet, here we are, neck-deep in a dating landscape so chaotic, so absurdly volatile, that a new movement has emerged from the wreckage: chaos celibacy.

It’s not that these people hate love. Far from it.

They just hate whatever this is.

The swipes, the ghostings, the emotionally incoherent text messages that arrive at 2 AM and disappear into oblivion by dawn.

They are opting out, defecting, taking their ball and going home—not because they’ve lost the game, but because the game has become a grotesque parody of itself, a bizarre Hunger Games of attraction where nobody wins, but everyone keeps playing.

The Digital Age and the Birth of Nah, I’m Good

Saint Camillus de Lellis was, in many ways, the last man anyone expected to become a saint. He was a fighter, a gambler, a brawler. He was a man who lived off his fists and his luck, and both betrayed him in equal measure.

Born in 1550, Camillus had a childhood that reads like a training montage for disaster. His father was a mercenary captain, the kind of man who solved problems with steel and walked away from them without a second glance.

Camillus, naturally, followed in his footsteps. At 16, he was already a soldier, swinging his sword for whatever cause paid him in coin and whiskey.

But discipline? No.

He was reckless, betting away his money, his food, his dignity. He was the kind of soldier other soldiers avoided—not because he wasn’t strong, but because his strength had no direction.

Then came the wound.

There’s an old joke, the kind that makes seminarians chuckle into their wine cups: three saints walk into a bar.

Except in this case, the bar is the twenty-first century, and the saints—long forgotten by all but the nerdiest hagiographers—have no idea what’s going on.

For decades, modern dating has been fixated on compatibility quizzes, text chemistry, and the fine art of decoding emoji usage.

But what if the real key to lasting connection wasn’t in perfectly matched values or love languages, but in shared experiences that create intimacy through action rather than analysis?

Welcome to experiential intimacy-led dating—a relationship model that prioritizes doing things together over talking about doing things together. If past dating trends were about defining relationships, this one is about living them.

What Is Experiential Intimacy?

Once upon a time—by which we mean, the 2010s—relationships were a grim battleground of overanalysis. "Are we exclusive? Should we keep talking to other people? Should we split the check? What does their therapist say about me?"

Love, somehow, became homework. But now, a refreshing new movement is sweeping the dating world: pleasure-centered love.

Gone are the days when ‘hard work’ was the gold standard for a good relationship. Instead, people are now asking, "What if my relationship made me feel good?" Shocking, right?

Nowadays self-actualization is often portrayed as a solo journey (cue the self-help gurus and their endless listicles).

The Michelangelo Phenomenon reminds us that we are, at our core, communal creatures. Our most intimate relationships don’t just comfort us—they shape us.

And like any sculpting process, the outcome depends on the skill, vision, and patience of the hands involved.

This blog post will take you on a journey through the history, psychology, and real-world impact of the Michelangelo Phenomenon.

Buckle up—this is love, but with chisels.

Imagine, if you will, a small, fragile human, recently emerged from the womb, utterly unqualified for independent survival.

This creature has no built-in Wi-Fi, no pre-installed navigation system, and, bafflingly, does not even come with a manual.

The responsibility of ensuring its emotional and psychological well-being falls upon caregivers, those overworked, caffeine-dependent beings who, through a series of biological trickery and social contracts, have agreed to raise another human without destroying it in the process.

But fear not, because modern science has gifted us two magnificent, evidence-based interventions for secure attachment and trauma recovery:

Attachment and Biobehavioral Catch-Up (ABC) – A sleek, 10-week behavioral upgrade for caregivers.

Child–Parent Psychotherapy (CPP) – A deep, exploratory therapy designed to repair attachment damage from past trauma.

Both claim to fortify the fragile caregiver-child relationship, but which should you choose?

Anthony Bourdain, the patron saint of the beautifully broken, believed that the kitchen was not merely a place of labor but a stage for presence, discipline, and deep human connection.

Mindfulness, though not a term he often used outright, infused every aspect of his philosophy—whether he was reverently slicing shallots or recounting war stories from the bowels of Manhattan’s restaurant scene.

Cooking, for Bourdain, was not just about feeding people; it was about being fully there, attuned to the moment, respecting the ingredients, the history, and—most importantly—the people across the table.

At some point in your life, you’ve likely felt it—that moment where time collapses, words disappear, and you’re not just "having sex" but plummeting headfirst into something bigger, deeper, maybe even a little terrifying.

Erotic trance is that moment of pure immersion, where the rational mind shuts off, the body takes over, and something ancient, primal, and possibly divine unfolds.

But what exactly is erotic trance?

🔹 Is it a neurological trick, a byproduct of sex hormones and dopamine highs?
🔹 Is it spiritual transcendence, a fleeting touch of the sacred through flesh?
🔹 Is it a dangerous illusion, a gateway into obsession, addiction, and self-destruction?

The answer is yes. To all of it.

Erotic trance is not just one thing—it is many things, depending on who you are, where you’re coming from, and what you’re looking for.

So buckle up. We’re going deep.

What if Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik and Esther Perel were to engage in an intellectual duel?

I don’t think it would be over facts. It would be a battle of worldviews—clashing visions of love, desire, and human connection.

Both thinkers are preoccupied with intimacy, longing, and commitment.

But their fundamental premises are irreconcilable

Soloveitchik, the architect of covenantal philosophy, sees love as existential devotion—a sacred bond that transforms loneliness into shared responsibility.

Perel, an advocate of mystery and erotic desire, insists that love thrives on tension, autonomy, and the intoxicating pull of the unknown.

So, which is it?

Does desire require distance, as Perel maintains, or does it find its true expression in radical devotion, as Soloveitchik suggests?

This debate gets to the heart of modern relationships and would undoubtedly leave Perel grappling with the implications of her own ideas.

Police departments in the United States lean Republican. This is not exactly a shocker.

If you had to bet your life savings on whether the average cop was more likely to watch a NASCAR race or sip an oat milk latte at a poetry reading, you’d be making a pretty safe investment.

But does this political tilt mean Republican officers police differently than their Democratic colleagues?

The answer might surprise you.

An epic, groundbreaking study in the American Journal of Political Science set out to answer this question with an ambitious data grab that would make the NSA proud.

Researchers sifted through voter registration records and police personnel files across 99 of the 100 largest local law enforcement agencies in the country.

(One agency, presumably, still communicates exclusively through carrier pigeons.) What they found was that about 32% of officers were registered Republicans, compared to just 14% of voting-age civilians in their jurisdictions.

Police officers were also whiter, wealthier, and significantly more likely to actually vote than the people they serve—so basically, your overachieving uncle at Thanksgiving dinner.

His name is Mennas, a Roman soldier, another cog in the Empire’s vast and meat-grinding machinery.

He is not an officer, not a senator, not the sort of man whose name would have been chiseled into marble by a city that lived on its own self-importance.

He is just a man with a sword, a man who has marched, killed, and bled in the name of emperors who never knew his name. And then, one day, he walks away.

Not in cowardice, but in refusal. A spiritual defection.

He takes off his armor, leaves his regiment, and disappears into the desert, seeking something beyond the hum of the war machine, beyond the clamor of Rome’s endless ambition.

In the silence, he learns the truth: that the world is so loud because men are afraid to hear themselves think.