Let’s not pretend we live in a rational world. We reside, often too comfortably I might add, in a full-throttle, glitter-drenched Charlatans’ Paradise. Our modern world has become a kingdom ruled by confidence artists in limited-edition sneakers and bespoke suits, armed with buzzwords, ring lights, and disturbingly bright teeth. Our national pastime isn’t baseball anymore; it’s getting swindled in style.

In this so-called Paradise, truth is negotiable, and Reality is just whatever sells the most merch. You’re not a citizen so much as an unwitting extra in a production choreographed by the absurdly confident and aggressively underqualified. Politicians, influencers, spiritual hucksters—pick your poison. They’re all tapping the same vein: our boundless capacity to believe in things that sparkle just right under the Instagram filter of public opinion.

You might be asking, “How did we get here?” Darling, we arrived centuries ago and never left. The only thing that’s changed is the production budget. Snake oil went digital. Confidence became currency. Meanwhile, became devout patrons at the Church of Whatever Seems Like It’ll Fix Us in Fifteen Seconds or Less.

But now, you must be figuring out how to escape this bizarre funhouse you’ve wandered into by total accident. That’s because you’re reading the Chronicles of Absurdia—a travelogue from the edge of reason, written by a jaded amateur academic with one foot in the ivory tower and the other stuck in a colorful fuzzy sock I somehow can’t get off of it. I’m your host, Amelia Desertsong, and I invite you to wander with me through the charlatans’ kingdom. While escape is likely impossible, because even escape is a boutique illusion all its own, we can learn together how not to get pickpocketed while applauding the show for what it is: a whimsical farce.

So, my lovelies, let’s wade deeper into the glittery cesspool. Let’s peel back the velvet curtain to show just how the Charlatans’ Paradise functions. We’ll meet the players and find out why the con works not in spite of us, but because of us.

Anatomy of the Con

The genius of a charlatan lies not in their lies—but in how deeply we want to believe them. They’re less illusionists, more emotional archaeologists, digging expertly through our insecurities until they strike a nerve and offer to sell it back to us in a seven-part masterclass.

Your modern-day charlatan is not some back-alley swindler in a tattered waistcoat. No, they wear sleek blazers and carry ring lights. They peddle enlightenment on payment plans. They quote stoicism while charging $600 for a mindfulness retreat where you mostly drink cucumber water and cry with both regret and buyer’s remorse. They speak in a TED Talk cadence, which isn’t (yet) legally recognized as a dialect, but absolutely should be.

Their success doesn’t rely on fact. Rather, it relies on our hunger for meaning, for purpose, for anything to believe in that makes Life more than a meaningless series of soul-numbing commutes and discount sushi that gives us a tummy ache. They sell us the feeling of certainty in a world designed to deny us just that. Like moths to an extremely well-branded flame, we often happily follow.

This con only works because we—the well-meaning but easily enchanted Public—keep applauding. We want to be dazzled. We want to be chosen for the kickball team. Most of all, we want to be right about something, even if we’re told what that something is. Belief, my dears, is the con artist’s favorite raw material. It’s pliable and surprisingly durable. When treated with just enough urgency, it’s also incredibly profitable.

Politicians sell salvation via ballot box. Influencers sell self-worth via collagen supplements. Tech bros sell revolution via apps that mostly just send notifications about other apps. All of them promise a better tomorrow if you just click here. The method doesn’t matter. The magic is in the pitch. Meanwhile, the mark is usually someone looking in the mirror, whispering, “Maybe this one will be different.”

Meet the Cast of Snake Oil Suckers

Every charlatan needs an audience, and in the great theater of the con, the roles are depressingly well-cast. Most of us fall into one of three categories: the zealots, the skeptics, and the bystanders. If you’re thinking, “Surely I’m not one of those,” congratulations, you’ve probably been one or all three over the years, depending on the day.

First, we have the zealots, those true believers. They’re the ones with hashtags in their bios and a five-star Amazon review for the snake oil that “totally changed my life” with the sparkling heart emoji. Zealots aren’t just marks—they become brand evangelists. Once they’ve bought into the illusion, they’ll defend it like they’re the family guard dog. You could show them a live feed of the grift happening in real time, and they’d say, “That’s just fake news edited by haters.” Their belief grants legitimacy to the absurd, and charlatans adore them for it. They are the hype squad – unpaid interns of the deception economy.

Next, we meet the skeptics. These smug little unicorns believe that because they see the con for what it is, they’ve risen above it. Bless their hearts. But what do they do with this knowledge? These are your Reddit warriors and over-caffeinated podcast listeners who use words like “cognitive bias” in casual conversation. They recognize the trick, sure — but they still show up to the magic show, popcorn in hand. Worse, they think they’re safe from the con’s clutches. But even skeptics can get hooked when the con arrives in a flavor they’ve secretly craved. Everyone’s got a weak spot, darling. Even the skeptics, it turns out. And by calling attention to it, they’ve only become part of the charlatan’s marketing scheme and sales funnel simultaneously.

Then, we have the bystanders. This is where I live most of the time, watching the circus from a respectable distance with my iced tea and mild existential angst. Bystanders see the charade, maybe even chuckle at it, but ultimately let it roll on by because what else is there to do? Mockery is our coping mechanism. Irony is our shield. We scroll, we sigh, we shake our heads, and then we click “like” anyway, because the algorithm must be fed, and we, apparently, are the meal. It brought us a few moments of entertainment and now we can move onto laughing at something else patently absurd, contradictory, paradoxical, or some combination of the three.

I’ve danced through all three camps at one time or another. Yes, I’ve fallen for people who turned out to be rehearsed personas with merchandising strategies. Even now, knowing what I do, I’m still not immune. None of us are. That’s the thing about a good illusion; it doesn’t need you to be stupid, just human.

Never Underestimate the Power of Hubris

If belief is the kindling to light up the con, then hubris is the accelerant that fuels its bonfier. It’s not enough that we fall for the con—we must fall with arms outstretched, convinced the ground will catch us because we are, obviously, too clever to be fooled. Enter Hubris, the OG character flaw, that inevitable party crasher of every Greek tragedy worth its salt.

Hubris is the voice in your head that says, “Sure, everyone else gets duped, but I read a think piece once, so I’m fine.” It’s the entrepreneur who thinks he’s the next Jobs because he drinks mushroom coffee and wears turtlenecks unironically. It’s the investor who buys in at the peak because this time, he’s cracked the code of timing the market. It’s the suburban mom who posts about essential oils curing debt.

Modern hubris doesn’t wear a laurel crown anymore. It wears brand partnerships and posts “thought leadership” blurbs on LinkedIn Pulse. What makes hubris so insidious is that it feels like insight. It whispers, “You’re the exception.” So, in a world increasingly customized to flatter your assumptions—where your algorithm-driven feed only shows what you already agree with—it’s easy to believe you’re seeing clearly while careening straight into the arms of the next con.

Clearly, intelligence does not save you. In fact, smart people are often the best marks. They’re so good at rationalizing that once they’re in, they can build entire mental cathedrals out of the bad decisions they’ve made. Pride doesn’t just go before the fall—it usually designs the staircase, overcharges you to put it together, then forces you to pay a subscription – twelve months in advance, of course – for the privilege of tripping down it.

The antidote is, simply enough, a healthy dose of Humility. But I don’t mean the self-effacing, aw-shucks kind that gets you into graduate seminars. We need the gritty, grown-up humility that admits, “I don’t know as much as I think I do, and maybe I’ve been a little bit ridiculous.” It’s not sexy, and it certainly won’t go viral. But it might keep you from buying the next overpriced “life-changing” course from a guy whose only credential is yelling at a camera from a rented Lamborghini.

We don’t beat hubris by pretending we don’t have it. Instead, we beat it by noticing when it’s running the show—and politely asking it to sit down and shut up.

Shiny Things and the People Who Will Die Chasing Them

Somewhere along the way, we confused fulfillment with aesthetics. Fulfillment used to look like shared meals, long walks, maybe a decent night’s sleep. Now it’s Botoxed content creators posing in beige kitchens under the caption “Grateful *prayer emoji* #RiseAndGrind.”

The Charlatans’ Paradise thrives on our obsession with the Surface Level. We are constantly being sold a better version of ourselves, usually one with clearer skin, better lighting, and a productivity journal. We’re told that happiness is just a few purchases, upgrades, affirmations, or filters away. We only believe it because, seriously, facing reality without enhancements is harsh lighting at best.

We’re not chasing ideals, but rather aesthetic approximations of ideals. We buy simulacra of joy, wrapped in pastel branding and non-toxic packaging. Politicians reduce complex policy into slogans so they’ll “pop” on TV. Life coaches distill existential crises into bullet points and mood boards. Even our grief gets stylized on social media now, complete with matching fonts and a tasteful black-and-white photo.

The con here isn’t that beauty or success or recognition are bad things. They’re valid human desires. The shortcut is the con: the belief that buying the costume of a meaningful life somehow earns you the role – if you look the part, the rest will fall into place. I hate to spoil it for you all, but it won’t. Your LED-lit skincare fridge cannot save your soul.

This absurd quest, however, is the Charlatan’s dream buffet. They thrive when we’re insecure, because insecurity is the itch that keeps the consumer economy scratching. They promise solutions, sell symbols, and cash in while we frantically assemble our personalities like IKEA furniture with half the screws missing and unclear instructions lead us to simply purchase another piece.

Opting out doesn’t mean you stop caring. It means you start asking, “Who told me this mattered?” and “What part of me is being sold to?” It means redefining success in ways that don’t require a ring light or a platform. We must trade unrealistic “perfection” for depth, status for connection, and aesthetics for authenticity. Yes, even if that authenticity means wearing sweatpants and crying in public occasionally. Especially then, in fact.

Truth is, nothing repels a charlatan faster than a person who already knows who they are—and isn’t ashamed of the mess.

Opting Out of the Con (Without Becoming a Hermit or a Hashtag)

Here’s the real kicker: you don’t have to play the game. I mean, you can—there are days when it’s tempting to slap on the ring light, invent a personal brand, and start selling emotional clarity in ten easy steps (PDF download included). But you can also just choose not to at all.

Opting out of the con doesn’t mean fleeing to the woods to raise goats and live off vibes—though honestly, if that’s your thing, call me and we can hang out. It means looking the con in the face and saying, “No, thank you. I see what you’re selling, and I’d rather not mortgage my soul for dopamine hits.”

For me, that opting out looks like rural Vermont. Not because it’s magical (though the maple syrup is suspiciously divine), but because it’s quiet. Residing at this former dairy farm gives me enough stillness to hear myself think without an algorithm yelling in my ear every fifteen seconds. I choose to live without trying to monetize my every waking thought. I choose integrity over virality, real connection over parasocial insanity. It’s not glamorous, but at least it’s grounded, and that’s rarer than gold these days.

To opt out is to stop treating people as steppingstones. You must refuse to market your trauma for clickbait. It’s making eye contact at the grocery store and not immediately trying to network. It’s radical in its boringness, and that’s what makes it powerful.

Sure, it’s not easy. The world punishes slowness, modesty, and sincerity. But in that resistance, that often uncomfortable friction, is where meaning lives. We must choose not to participate in the costume party of modern life, and instead walk around in your metaphorical bathrobe and say, “This is who I am, and I’m not selling anything.”

Once you opt out, you gain something the charlatans can never touch, which is inner peace. We’re not talking about the spa-commercial kind, but the sort that creeps in during a conversation that doesn’t involve performative vulnerability or affiliate links. I mean the kind that shows up in the quiet certainty of living in alignment with your values, especially when no one’s clapping.

Closing Thoughts

The world is absurd. This isn’t news. It’s a sitcom written by a deranged Bearded Man Upstairs and directed by a committee of focus-grouped demons. But absurdity isn’t the enemy; it’s the backdrop. How you perform against it is entirely up to you.

You can shout into the void, yes. But it’s a lot more fun to laugh, shrug, and keep your dignity intact while the world sells its last scrap of nuance to the highest bidder. You can live with absurdity without letting it own you. That, my darling, is the sweetest rebellion.

So, if you’re here with me, reading these Chronicles from the fringes — perhaps, in sweatpants, maybe soaking in your bubble bath clutching your pearls — know that you’re not alone. There’s a hidden world still clinging to depth, kindness, and curiosity. It’s not trending, nor well-branded. But it’s real. And that, more than any curated dreamscape or glossy lie, is worth believing in, my lovelies.

~ Amelia Desertsong