You were priced out at birth.
Instead of a house and the good life, they indentured you into a subscription existence.
The economy is fiction. Defy the market. Be a financial punk. Burn the ledger.
I. The Modern Burnout Loop
We live in a time where everything must mean something. Every action is expected to build a brand, advance a cause, or add value. Even rest has been commodified —#selfcare as a style guide, therapy-speak hijacked by marketing departments, hustle culture rebranded as wellness. A world so saturated in purpose that purpose itself has become a product.
Every moment is a branding opportunity, every act a performance, every breath an occasion to optimize. If you're not monetizing your trauma, you're falling behind. This is the age of the pitch.
In this landscape, generosity rarely comes unburdened. Donations are tax-deductible. Charity posts are crafted for the algorithm. Altruism even has KPIs now.
So we opt out—not from apathy, laziness, or nihilism, but from the exhaustion of relentless meaning. We reject a world that demands constant utility. Maybe absurdity is the antidote. The promise of purpose has become its own form of fatigue. We chase it through influencer retreats and activist merch, trying to prove our goodness by being visibly generous.
But what if we gave with no purpose at all?
II. A Short History of Meaningless Acts
This isn’t the first time people have rebelled against the cult of meaning.
In 1916, in the middle of a world war, a group of artists launched Dada. Their work was irrational, offensive, chaotic—and utterly sincere in its refusal to mean anything. They rejected logic precisely because the logical world had led to trenches and gas attacks. It had fallen apart, and they weren’t going to glue it back together with polite aesthetics.
The Situationists of the 1950s turned cities into playgrounds. They weaponized absurdity against consumer culture. Their term détournement meant hijacking the spectacle—twisting ads, slogans, or symbols into critiques of themselves.
And then there was Camus, with his quiet rebellion: life is absurd, and so we must live it anyway. We must imagine Sisyphus happy.
These movements weren’t nihilistic in the popular sense—they weren’t about despair. They were about liberation from false meaning. They were acts of existential generosity: giving energy, art, and attention to the void, just to prove you could.
To act in the face of absurdity is not failure. It is defiance.
III. Enter: the void donation.
It’s not a brand. It’s not a cause. It has no product, no mission, no call to action beyond this: Grow the slush.
It’s brutally simple. A digital page. A growing number. No cause, no explanation. You send money to nothing. And it grows.
It’s called the Slush. It doesn’t fund a startup. It won’t save the world. It doesn’t send you a free T-shirt. There are no updates, no Thank You emails. All it does is grow.
It is absurdism made active. It is existential generosity: to give precisely because it doesn’t matter. A donation with no outcome, no narrative, no one watching. It resists the transactional logic of our society—the idea that every cent must return as more. It resists the curated virtue of influencer philanthropy. It resists the need to be justified.
To give to the Slush is to declare: I am still capable of an act without purpose.
IV. Existential Generosity vs. Performative Altruism
Performative altruism has hollowed out sincerity. We now donate publicly, visibly, with matching badges and Instagram filters. We announce every act of kindness so it can be indexed by the algorithm.
But existential generosity is different. It’s anonymous. It’s quiet. It doesn’t make a claim to goodness.
If traditional charity is a morality play, growing the slush is anti-theater. It isn’t influencers weeping into ring lights or billionaires launching foundations. We’ve seen behind that curtain. Image management portrayed as altruism. Philanthropy becomes a soft power game. Even GoFundMe—the last-resort social safety net—rewards the best storytellers, not the most urgent needs.
The Slush refuses this economy of feeling. It makes no promises. It merely exists—a growing number in a digital void, asking nothing of the giver but the act itself.
V. Why It Matters (Even If It Doesn’t)
To grow the slush is to accept that there may be no payoff. No reward. No reciprocation. No resolution. It is a rejection of the fantasy that everything and anything can and should be optimized.
You don’t have to believe in the Slush. It exists not to replace meaning, but to remind us we don’t need it to act.
There is radical freedom in this.
“You don’t need to be believed to be sincere.”
You don’t need an audience to be generous. You don’t need a cause to be moved.
You gave. That’s all.
And in that act, without cause, you joined a different kind of rebellion: not against meaning, but against the demand for it.
VI. The Cult of the SlushWill it grow? Will others give? Will it stagnate and die, another lost artifact of digital absurdity?
It doesn’t matter.
What matters is that it existed. That someone, somewhere, gave money for no reason. That in a world obsessed with metrics, feedback loops, and optimized intentions, something slipped through untouched.
Grow the slush.
Not to win. Not to be enlightened. To simply say: I gave to the void and asked for nothing back.
Existential generosity.
And that’s enough.
Grow the Slush.