Just as my kid is nodding off for the night, it arrives: a ding. It’s Nancy Pelosi, texting to tell me that if I don’t donate $5 immediately, American democracy will basically collapse. A few minutes later, it’s Cory Booker, with an urgent request. Don’t even get me started on James Talarico.

Sometimes I’m driving, or making dinner, or trying to focus on my work, and another three messages arrive. Barack Obama NEEDS me. There’s a critical deadline approaching. A generous donor has offered an 800 percent match. Everything is at stake.

As I was writing that last paragraph, I got a message from Angus, a cat belonging to Sam Forstag, a Democratic congressional candidate in Montana. Angus needed me to know that Sam was out there working to flip Montana’s First Congressional District, taking on his Republican opponent and the wealthy special interests backing him.

I’m not sure what Angus expected me to do about it.

Political fundraising texts are a fact of American life. They’re intrusive, melodramatic, and relentless. This year alone, I’ve received 725. In the first 20 days of October, more than 190 arrived—nearly 10 a day. On October 14, I got 21.

The strangest part is that most of these messages aren’t meant for me. They’re meant for a family member who I’ll call John, for privacy reasons. John lives in California and has made small donations to Democrats. I live in New York and have made no political donations at all. We have different names, phone numbers, and bank accounts—a distinction that has apparently proven difficult for a substantial portion of the American political fundraising industry.

For years, I diligently opted out. I’ve replied “STOP” 49 times since 2021, by my phone’s count. Sometimes “Stop2End,” when that was the magic word. In November 2025, I told Jon Ossoff’s campaign some version of “stop.” It did not stop. Since then, I’ve received 13 more texts boosting his campaign, from nine different numbers.

When the Democratic Congressional Campaign Committee texted to inform me that Bill Clinton, Barack Obama, and Joe Biden were calling me personally to action, I replied “eat shit.” That didn’t work either.

Exhausted, I decided this month to figure out what the hell was going on. Why did so many campaigns have my number? Why did they think it belonged to someone else? And why wouldn’t they fucking stop?

For starters, I downloaded my Messages history and pulled out the political texts I’ve received in recent years. Since March 2022, I’ve gotten 1,735, from 812 different phone numbers. By any measure, this is simply too many texts—nearly none of which were meant for me.