I know too much

my rat brain can't handle it

Last time I mentioned that I have too many thoughts. Today I have none! The irony! I also mentioned this would be a monthly column, but turns out, the urge to publish your stream of consciousness has a timeline of its own. xx

It’s official. I know too much. I’ve hit that critical mass of internet discourse where I can’t seem to think of an interesting and/or original thought. 

This feeling best translates to a lack of inspiration. Except, I’m more than uninspired, I’m uninterested. And restless. 

The feeling of excitement feels foreign to me; I can’t remember the last time I felt fully immersed in a project, both as a creator and a consumer. I refuse to start a new TV show because it requires too much commitment, so I listlessly watch YouTube videos of ex-Bon Appetit chefs making summer salads while I delete junk emails. Everything I read makes me cringe, especially the words that come from my own brain. I can’t bear to read a full blown article, let alone a substack listicle that's 75% outfit pictures. I find myself getting sick of “trending topics” so much faster than I used to. My rat brain is already bored of yesterday’s loafer discussion or the complaints about how difficult it is to date these days, even though I can relate to both. It’s all so… ugh. 

It’s not irritation, it’s not anger, it’s a secret third thing. 

Complete and utter distaste

I understand that I live in a very, very loud echo chamber and this corner of the internet is actually just a small subset of humans. But even this small subset is bigger than I can truly comprehend. Just look at the sheer number of comments on one GQ article. And those are just the people who care enough to make their opinions known, so now think about the amount of eyeballs that even glanced at the headline. The voices telling me that women are on the fence about motherhood and blush sticks are all the rage these days are so loud that it drowns out the actual conversations happening inside in the very subway car I’m sitting in. 

I know, “log off you psycho”. And to that I say, yes true. But then what? For how long? And what if my livelihood depends on understanding these references and forecasting the next one? 

again for emphasis: the perfect daria quote

To consume or not to consume is actually not the question here. This is more about me and the unfamiliarity of my own thoughts. Dramatic much, I know. But truly, I used to love all this shit. Or at least, I used to be entertained by it for longer periods of time. Even the Andrew Huberman article held me over for a solid 48 hours. Now I can barely make it to 30 minutes with rat men. 

On the surface, this seems like an attention span issue, and while that’s certainly a key factor, it’s not the main source of the problem. It’s more about the discussions that surround them, and most importantly, my involvement in them. I feel empty and not myself when I have nothing to say on any of these cultural phenomena, and in fact, they irritate me. 

I’m not overly concerned, though. I know this cultural aversion. I’ve had it before. I’d liken it to the common cold: get a little extra sleep and wait about 5 days. I know where I caught it from, too: too much time in my own brain. An interesting irony: the more time I have to ponder, the less I can engage with any one idea. This creates an imbalance in which I consume more than I create, throwing off my mental pH. I read that on WebMD, actually.

Maybe this is what people talk about when they say they lose their creative spark. But I think that’s limiting. For starters, I never considered myself a “creative” until recently, and begrudgingly at that. Actually everything to do with online behavior is begrudging. 

Everything is embarrassing, as Sky Ferreira would say 

I have a real issue with earnestness and anyone close to me can tell you that. Or at least, an issue with how I perceive myself. I can’t exist on the internet, or in actual - stay with me - human society without feeling a weird sense of shame for my existence. What’s up with that?

My manic notes app entries say it all

I’ve been told that it passes with age, but I believe I have the brain of an 85 year old man, complete with the “what’s wrong with your generation” takes and “why is no one looking up when they walk” gripes. So I don’t think it does. Plus, I know some 50 year olds who would agree with me here. 

Being on the internet, let alone a person who posts things on the internet, requires a certain level of vulnerability that I have a very difficult time accepting. Commenting on another person’s video? Embarrassing! Following someone you think is cool? Embarrassing! Thinking you have an idea worth sharing? So embarrassing! 

The Cure

I think brat is a prescient example. Sorry, it had to be talked about. I lost my appetite for it one millisecond (about a week) after it came out, relative to her prior album release two years ago where I listened for months on end, completely sated. Even though I’ve participated in it, I’m sick of the discourse that surrounds it. The “I loved her first” claims (I did), the “brutalism is so in” discourse, the cigarettes and white tank top aesthetic. Next!

@katespadeGreen, the official color of brat summer 💚 #katespadeny #bratsummer

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None of these conversations are captivating me. None of these patterns I recognize are worth investigating. I simply can’t believe all of these people care so much, for such an extended period of time! 

Sitting behind my computer screen, I find myself telling people to touch grass on a near constant basis, but perhaps I’m the one who needs to be out on the lawn.* Who have I become? Why don’t I want to participate? Where did the urge to share my thoughts and talk to people and engage in conversation go?!  Where is the rush I used to get from having an opinion? Or an idea, even? Relax. This too shall pass. 

This pop culture / creative apathy comes in waves. I know because it’s happened before and it’ll happen again. The good news is that writing this essay has given me hope. Besides the pure catharsis of channeling my mental discomfort into words on a page, it’s reintroduced that excitement for creation, opening the door to “flow state”, if you will. 

I know I’m back to being myself when I’m word-vomitting something in my notes app, furiously transcribing my thoughts for fear they’ll evaporate, all while walking on the treadmill before 8 am. Phew. We’re back baby**. 

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*nobody asked (nobody ever does, though plenty of people online would beg to differ) but here’s what I do when I feel myself craving a reality check. These don’t involve nature - some of us live in Manhattan. Plus, going for a hike is no longer an acceptable answer. Too trite. 

1. Go to the movies — yes, the actual theater — at 3pm on a Saturday by yourself. It is a crazy time warp where you essentially force yourself into a contactless vacuum with one sole focus. You will come out the other side as a new person. 

2. Call your grandpa. Or someone who doesn’t read Puck or know who Hailey Bieber is. I promise, it’s like hitting the reset button. 

3. Get a haircut. It’s all the beauty of speaking to a person who’s on the spectrum between stranger and familiar acquaintance, but with the added benefit of physically looking different once you’re done. 

** This includes my obsession with brat. I can’t stop listening.