There’s a new gang here.

They’re 3–4 ft tall, run fast, and if you strike one of them, you go straight to jail. They are the Children of Cornopolis. They move in packs, hunt for fights or anything worth stealing. Two split off—one one way, one the other—then regroup and laugh. I’ve watched them beat up a woman who tried to move away; they knocked down another woman a block over.

If you spot 10–15 masked kids, keep them in your vision but back off. They mean to hurt you.

People here want to do you harm now. Waving at a stranger can get you attacked. Maybe they hate your hair, shirt, or the fact you’re happy—they’ll end that good day right now.

We used to think this was a decent place to grow up. Now it’s just a spot to get beat up.

The worst part is there’s zero consequences. These kids—ten or twelve years old—know with awareness that the system protects them. Youth is their shield and their weapon. Parents are MIA—either too weak or proud of their little tyrants.

The tactics have gone up a gear. What started as pranks and petty theft is now coordinated assaults, lookouts at every corner. They communicate through burner apps, disappearing into alleys and popping up blocks away. Their masks, once pandemic gear, now hide them from cameras that catch everything else.

Local shops are tanking. My favorite pizza joint closed after repeated patio attacks; staff got roughed up and quit. The playground sits empty except for these gangs claiming it. Families stay indoors; the elderly hide behind curtains. Public space got ceded through fear.

The cops are useless. “What do you want us to do?” one asked. “Arrest children? They’ll be back before the paperwork’s done.” Social services are strapped and underfunded. Schools wash their hands—”off campus”—and shrug. Everyone blames someone else.

Our community is splitting. Some push vigilante patrols. Others beg for outreach before it’s too late. A hardline crew wants legal strikes at parents, strict curfews, nonstop police. Meetings crash into shouting matches.

The toll goes deeper than bruises. Residents live in hypervigilance—scanning streets, plotting detours to dodge corners. Trust is gone; neighbors eye each other. After that last assault, everyone locked their curtains tighter.

There’s nothing unique here. Similar outbreaks hit towns across the region, proving this is systemic rot, not random crime. Economic collapse, broken families, digital desensitization—they combine into perfect chaos.

Most shocking is how we’ve accepted harm as normal. A friendly gesture feels dangerously naïve. The social contract is dead; trust is extinct. Every interaction risks conflict, so we shrink into smaller cages of safety.

Neighborhod watch turnout is dying. People move away without farewell gatherings. More “For Sale” signs pop up daily. Those left bolt their doors, reroute their lives. We’re a town of strangers living in fear.

This place once attracted aspiring families, promised peaceful retirements. Now it’s ruled by child predators in packs—brutality pays, kindness gets you hurt. We’re staring at a full moral collapse in daylight, under masks, with their laughter echoing down empty streets.

The Quiet Collapse

The house next door just hit the market, advertised on Zillow as a “new Airbnb opportunity” after its stint as a problematic rental property. What was once someone’s home is now pitched as a transient commodity, a revolving door of strangers rather than a place of roots and memories. Converting residential homes into short-term rentals doesn’t just shuffle tenants—it transforms neighborhood dynamics, potentially disrupting the stability that keeps streets safe, properties maintained, and communities connected. This listing represents a broader trend of how residential spaces increasingly shift from long-term homes to investmnet properties.

I’ve spent five years here watching these changes unfold in slow motion. The patterns no longer follow familiar logic, with one notable exception: the dogs. Throughout the neighborhood, medium to large breeds have become increasingly common—mastiffs, shepards, pit mixes—gradually replacing the smaller companion dogs people once preferred. There was no announcement or formal shift; the transition happened organically, perhaps reflecting changing priorities around security and protection. This evolution in pet ownership mirrors broader societal shifts in how we approach personal safety and home security.

Meanwhile, our cities face mounting challenges while public attention remains fragmented. Beyond the visible symptoms of urban strain lie deeper human struggles. Utah farmers are experiencing a suicide crisis, with agriculture ranking as the third-highest suicide rate by occupation in the state. These deaths stem from a complex web of factors: financial pressure, isolation, limited mental health resources, and the increasng precarity of agricultural livelihoods. Their stories rarely make headlines, yet they represent a profound failure of our support systems for those who produce our food.

Equally concerning, many aquifers and waterways that sustain our food supply face contamination from agricultural chemicals, nitrogen runoff, and waste. These water qualtiy issues represent a serious public health and environmental challenge. What should be our most precious resource sometimes carries substances that may impact long-term ecosystem and human health. Families who once took clean water for granted now consider filtration systems essential, while older residents note the emergence of health concerns previously uncommon in their communities.

Downtown districts once bustling with commerce now stand eerily vacant, marked by papered-over storefronts and deserted office bildings. What remains is a shadow economy of popup tents and makeshift shelters, mobile encampments that appear overnight in parks, under highway overpasses, and along riverbanks. City officials respond with temporary “sweeps” that merely displace rather than address the underlying crisis. The pattern repeats endlessly—displacement, relocation, sweep, repeat—while permanent housing solutions and mental health services remain chronically underfunded. These visual markers of systemic failure have become so commonplace that many residents no longer register them, eyes trained to look past the canvas homes and shopping carts filled with earthly possessions.

The lack of sustained public engagement with these issues is perhaps most troubling of all. We process the information in brief moments of concern—noting property changes, scanning worrying statistics about farmer mental health, registering water quality alerts—before moving on to more immediate concerns. This pattern of distracted awarness leaves us collectively witnessing significant social and environmental changes without mobilizing meaningful responses.

I think it is important to recognize that there was a “before times” and that it was different. Not the way getting older gives you a different view of the past, but measurable changes that have and are occurring that are unprecedented.

The United States bowing to authoritarians for personal gain and the involvement in foreign nationals in the running of government is unprecedented. I’m as much a fan of we’re one people worldwide as the next person, however the United States was always the backstop against Russia and China. Intentionally, the U.S.A. was the worldwide hegemony and military super power. This kept China and Russia in check and allowed the U.S.A. to go about the business of worldwide policing for better or worse. The police are now run by oligarch criminals.

We also used to work different, the days of pensions and long term investment in companies were the guiding star of “the greatest generation” (1901 – 1927) in a time when the Supreme Court declared Income Tax unconstitutional until the 16th Amendment in 1913 – even then it was, by modern definitions, an absurdly low amount under 10%. This was possible because corporations paid their fair share, the War Bonds were patriotic, fascism and authoritarianism was seen as bad, and oligarchs were kept in check.

There’s a stark break between the America we remember and the America we inhabit today—not the soft glow of nostalgia, but clear, hard facts that show how drastically our country has shifted. If must recognize these facts and understand it’s impact.

Once, America wore the mantle of democracy’s fiercest champion. We stood firm against tyrants—from Stalin’s gulags to Mao’s famine—and we kept our alliances strong so freedom could thrive around the globe. Now, our highest offices are tainted by foreign interests, with leaders more eager to line their pockets than defend our values. That betrayal of public trust isn’t an accident; it’s a choice—and one we can reverse.

Look at our economy. The “Greatest Generation” didn’t beg for bailouts or chase quarterly profits above all else—they struck long-term deals: companies paid pensions and workers stayed loyal for decades. Taxes stayed under 10% because corporations shouldered their share, and everyday Americans bought War Bonds out of patriotism, not opportunity. We built that social contract and it kept us together.

None of this decline was preordained. We handed away our power piece by piece—privatizing public goods, letting vast fortunes dodge accountability, and electing officials who serve themselves first. But choices can be undone. It starts with citizens who refuse to look the other way, who vote, who organize, who demand leaders who put America above all else.

Look around: corporate interests dictate policy, elections bend under offshore cash, and social bonds have been replaced by digital echo chambers. What was solid has turned to sand. The lines that once held us together have been erased.

This is where we stand: a nation stripped of its guardrails, handed over to the highest bidder, bound to a future that feels foreign. No spin. No sugarcoating. Just the ledger of our time, laid bare for anyone willing to read it.