Cinemorphosis

Tag: social-media

  • Posting Ennui and the Rise of Podcast Land

    Posting Ennui and the Rise of Podcast Land

    It’s a small miracle that Kyle Chayka’s New Yorker piece, “Are You Experiencing Posting Ennui?”, wasn’t published five years ago. The argument feels overdue—like an obituary written long after the corpse started to stink. Chayka observes what most of us have already felt in our scrolling bones: the golden era of amateur posting—your breakfast photo, your blurry concert shot, your moody-filtered selfie—has gone the way of the lava lamp and the Livestrong bracelet. What was once dubbed “valorized amateurism” now reads like cringe-inducing narcissism.

    In its place, we have the glossy perfection of influencers and the manic edge of doom content. It’s either an unboxing of a $5,000 Japanese toaster or a clip forecasting economic collapse by Tuesday. There is no middle.

    Some of this is generational. Millennials have aged out of thirst traps and into soft lighting and privacy. Gen Z, including my daughters, treat public self-aggrandizement with the kind of disgust once reserved for timeshare pitches and chain emails. To them, most online posting isn’t just unnecessary—it’s embarrassing.

    Chayka diagnoses the affliction as posting ennui—the existential fatigue of shouting into a void dominated by micro-celebrity algorithms and brand-filtered banality. We used to post in order to share something real; now we post to survive the algorithm’s cold indifference. And the algorithm doesn’t even show our friends anymore. So what’s the point? The casual post is now a ghost of its former self—undone not by controversy, but by irrelevance.

    Then there’s AI, which hangs over this whole landscape like a digital grim reaper. Now, even authenticity feels manufactured. Who made that caption? Who edited that face? Is that even a real voice? The uncanny valley has extended to your Instagram feed.

    Chayka predicts we may be headed toward what he calls Posting Zero—a post-social media state of blissful digital silence, where the compulsion to perform evaporates, and nobody’s life is reduced to a grid of curated lies.

    And honestly? I’m here for it.

    Let the pixelated word salads and beige hotel mirror selfies die a quiet death. Let the algorithm cannibalize itself. But here’s where I’ll add a wrinkle Chayka overlooks: even as posting dies, Podcast Land thrives.

    The podcast isn’t dead. It’s ascendant. While selfies wilt, microphones multiply. I know people—and I count myself among them—who have fully relocated to Podcast Land. Sam Harris talks to me for two hours a day. I fall asleep to history podcasts. I nap with AirPods in. I swing kettlebells to longform interviews about Stoicism and dopamine. I am deep in Podcast Land. I’ve got residency status.

    So yes, let the Instagram Stories dry up. Let the TikTok dances lose their rhythm. But don’t mistake this silence for disengagement. We’re still listening. We’re still absorbing. We’re just done performing.

    Welcome to Posting Zero. Now please keep your voice down—I’m trying to hear what Sam Harris is saying about the AI Takeover.

  • Brand Me, Break Me: The Confused User’s Guide to Digital Collapse (A College Essay Prompt)

    Brand Me, Break Me: The Confused User’s Guide to Digital Collapse (A College Essay Prompt)

    In addition to teaching Critical Thinking, I also teach Freshman Composition, and this semester I’m working with student-athletes—specifically, football players navigating the brave new world of NIL (Name, Image, Likeness) deals. These athletes are now eligible to make money from social media, which makes our first writing assignment both practical and perilous.

    Essay Prompt #1: Brand Me, Break Me: The Confused User’s Guide to Digital Collapse

    Social media is a business. Social media is also a drug. Sometimes, it’s both—and that’s when things get weird.

    In the docuseries Money Game, we watch college athletes play the algorithm like it’s just another playbook. They build brands, negotiate deals, and treat their social feeds like a revenue stream. Let’s call them Business Users—people who understand the game and are winning it.

    But then come the Dopamine Users, the rest of us poor souls, scrolling and posting not for profit, but for approval. In Black Mirror’s “Nosedive” and “Joan Is Awful,” we see social media mutate into a psychological carnival of rating systems, fake smiles, and avatars of self-worth. The result? A curated self that has nothing to do with reality and everything to do with anxiety, desperation, and an ongoing identity crisis.

    And then there’s the tragicomic third act: The Confused User. Think Untold: The Liver King. Here’s a guy who tried to be a Business User but collapsed into parody—lying, self-deluding, and publicly unraveling. The Confused User believes they’re optimizing for attention and success but ends up optimizing for ridicule and collapse.

    In this essay, use Money Game, “Nosedive,” “Joan Is Awful,” Untold: The Liver King, Jonathan Haidt’s essay “Why the Past 10 Years of American Life Have Been Uniquely Stupid,” and Sherry Turkle’s TED Talk “Alone, but Connected?” to respond to the following claim:

    Social media can be a profitable business tool—but when it becomes a substitute for self-worth, it guarantees isolation, mental illness, and eventual collapse. Understanding the difference between Business Users, Dopamine Users, and Confused Users may be the only way to survive the algorithm without losing your mind.

    You may agree, partially agree, or disagree with the claim—but either way, take a position with clarity and nuance. Analyze the psychology, the economics, and the wreckage.

    And remember: this is a critical thinking exercise. That means no TikTok therapy takes, no AI-generated summaries, and no mushy conclusions. Think hard, argue well, and—above all—write like someone who’s seen the glitch in the matrix.

    Sample Thesis Statements:

    1. While social media offers entrepreneurial opportunities for Business Users, the vast majority of people are Dopamine Users unknowingly trading mental stability for validation, making the platform a psychological trap disguised as empowerment.
    2. The Confused User, exemplified by the Liver King, represents a cautionary tale in the digital economy: when brand-building and identity collapse into one, social media success becomes indistinguishable from self-destruction.
    3. Social media doesn’t inherently damage us—but without a clear distinction between economic strategy and personal validation, users risk becoming Confused Users whose craving for attention leads not to fame, but to ruin.

    In a world where your Instagram handle might carry more currency than your GPA, this isn’t just an academic exercise—it’s a survival guide. Whether you’re gunning for a sponsorship deal or just trying not to lose your sense of self in the scroll, this essay is your chance to interrogate the game before it plays you. Treat it like film study for the algorithm: read the plays, understand the players, and figure out how to stay human in a system designed to monetize your attention and, if you’re not careful, your identity.

  • College Essay Prompt: Your Brand, Your Legacy: How to Influence Without Selling Out

    College Essay Prompt: Your Brand, Your Legacy: How to Influence Without Selling Out

    Assignment Overview:

    In the NIL era, athletes are no longer just players—they’re entrepreneurs, role models, and public figures. The rise of influencer culture gives you the power to shape your own brand, connect with fans, and earn money. But with that power comes pressure: How do you stay real while staying relevant? How do you build your platform without becoming a product?

    In the Money Game docuseries, LSU gymnast Olivia Dunne models a smart, sustainable approach to NIL: blending athletic performance, personality, and professionalism. In contrast, the Netflix documentary Untold: The Liver King tells the story of Brian Johnson—a man who built an extreme, hyper-masculine fitness brand only to fall hard after revealing he built his image on steroids and deception.

    In this essay, you will write a “how-to manual” for student-athletes trying to build an ethical, authentic, and effective personal brand. Your argument should clearly explain what works, what doesn’t, and why. Use Olivia Dunne as a model of smart influencer strategy, the Liver King as a cautionary tale, and at least one additional athlete (from the reading list or your own research) as a supporting case study.

    Your Goals in This Essay:

    • Teach readers how to build a responsible and sustainable NIL brand
    • Compare successful and failed influencer strategies
    • Reflect on how an athlete can balance real identity with public image
    • Take a clear stance on what makes influencer branding admirable, ethical, and long-lasting

    Essay Requirements:

    • MLA format (12-point font, double-spaced, proper citations)
    • 8 paragraphs: introduction, 6 body paragraphs, conclusion
    • At least two credible sources (see the reading list or find your own)
    • In-text citations and a Works Cited page
    • A focused, argumentative thesis (not just “influencing is good/bad”)
    • Use specific examples and clear reasoning

    Suggested 8-Paragraph Outline:

    1. Introduction
      • Hook: Ask a question or tell a quick story about athlete fame or social media fame
      • Context: Briefly define NIL and explain how it has changed college athletics
      • Thesis: State your core advice—what makes an NIL brand ethical, effective, and worth following
    2. Lesson #1: Be Real, Not Just Visible
      • Use Dunne’s example to show the power of authenticity and athletic credibility
      • Contrast with the Liver King’s persona-based deception
    3. Lesson #2: Align Your Brand with Who You Are
      • Use a secondary case study (e.g., Shedeur Sanders or Chase Griffin)
      • Show how a values-based brand creates trust and long-term appeal
    4. Lesson #3: Build for the Long Run, Not Just for Likes
      • Talk about long-term goals vs. short-term popularity
      • Emphasize how transparency and substance protect your legacy
    5. Lesson #4: Know the Game—You’re a Business, Not Just a Feed
      • Explain the importance of smart partnerships, content quality, and self-discipline
      • Compare thoughtful NIL deals with hype-based gimmicks
    6. Lesson #5: The Spotlight Is Hot—Know the Risks
      • Social media can bring opportunity and scrutiny
      • One bad post or fake partnership can harm your name
      • Tie back to broader trends in sports culture
    7. Counterargument + Rebuttal
      • Acknowledge: some believe shock and virality are the fastest way to fame
      • Rebut: real influence lasts longer than a trend, and fake personas crack under pressure
    8. Conclusion
      • Restate your thesis about how to build a brand that reflects who you are
      • Leave readers with advice: if a younger athlete asked you for NIL advice, what would you say?

    Companion Reading List

    1. [“How Marketers Choose College Athlete Influencers” – Harvard Business Review](https://hbr.org/2024/05/how-marketers-choose-college-athlete-influencers)

    Overview: This article delves into the criteria marketers use to select college athletes for NIL deals, emphasizing authenticity, engagement, and brand alignment.

    2. [“College Athletes Are Now Online Influencers, Too” – Global Sport Matters](https://globalsportmatters.com/business/2023/02/08/whole-different-audience-college-athletes-online-influencers-too/)

    Overview: Explores the dual identity of college athletes as both competitors and influencers, highlighting the opportunities and challenges of this new landscape.

    3. [“How NIL Deals and Brand Sponsorships Are Helping College Athletes Make Money” – Business Insider](https://www.businessinsider.com/how-college-athletes-are-getting-paid-from-nil-endorsement-deals)

    *Overview:* Provides a comprehensive look at the financial aspects of NIL deals, including the role of collectives and the varying scales of athlete earnings.([MarketWatch][1])

    4. [“Livvy Dunne Dishes on Her Social Media Strategy” – On3](https://www.on3.com/college/lsu-tigers/news/livvy-dunne-dishes-on-her-social-media-strategy-how-she-handles-rabid-fans/)

    *Overview:* Offers insights into Olivia Dunne’s approach to managing her online presence, balancing personal branding with athletic commitments.

    5. [“The Top 10 NIL Influencers To Follow On Social Media” – Viral Nation](https://www.viralnation.com/resources/blog/top-10-nil-influencers-of-2022)

    Overview: Highlights standout college athletes who have effectively leveraged social media for NIL opportunities, providing case studies of successful strategies.

    —

    College Football Players Exemplifying Savvy Social Media Use

    1. Shedeur Sanders (University of Colorado)

    Overview: Son of NFL legend Deion Sanders, Shedeur has cultivated a strong personal brand through consistent social media engagement, showcasing his on-field performance and off-field personality. His strategic use of platforms has led to significant NIL deals, making him one of the top earners among college athletes.([talkSPORT][2])

    2. Chase Griffin (UCLA)

    Overview: Recognized as a two-time NIL Male Athlete of the Year, Griffin has combined academic excellence with a thoughtful social media presence. He uses his platforms to discuss topics beyond football, including education and social issues, aligning with brands that reflect his values.

    3. Michael Turk (Oklahoma)

    Overview: Through his YouTube channel “Hangtime,” Turk shares content that blends athletic training, personal faith, and lifestyle topics. His authentic storytelling and engagement have attracted a substantial following, enhancing his marketability for NIL partnerships.([Wikipedia][3])

    4. Hendon Hooker (University of Tennessee)

    Overview: Hooker has utilized his platform to promote positive messages, including co-authoring a children’s book that combines sports themes with life lessons. His commitment to community engagement and personal development resonates with audiences and sponsors alike.([Wikipedia][4])

    5. Jaden Rashada (Arizona State University)

    Overview: As one of the first high school athletes to sign an NIL deal, Rashada has been at the forefront of athlete branding. His proactive approach to building a personal brand sets a precedent for upcoming athletes navigating the NIL landscape.([Wikipedia][5])

    [1]: https://www.marketwatch.com/story/these-10-college-athletes-are-making-over-1-million-a-year-in-nil-deals-203649d7?utm_source=chatgpt.com “These 10 college athletes are making over $1 million a year in NIL deals”

    [2]: https://talksport.com/us/2066573/livvy-dunne-top-nil-deals-shedeur-sanders-college/?utm_source=chatgpt.com “Livvy Dunne has $4m NIL fortune but it’s a trailblazing quarterback who tops college list”

    [3]: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Michael_Turk?utm_source=chatgpt.com “Michael Turk”

    [4]: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hendon_Hooker?utm_source=chatgpt.com “Hendon Hooker”

    [5]: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jaden_Rashada?utm_source=chatgpt.com “Jaden Rashada”

    10 Dos and Don’ts of Athletic Social Media Branding

    1. DO show your work ethic.

    Post training clips, game-day prep, recovery routines, and behind-the-scenes discipline. You’re not just flexing muscles—you’re broadcasting your commitment.

    DON’T just flex your abs.
     A shirtless selfie with no context screams vanity, not value. You’re not auditioning for a thirst trap Olympics.

    2. DO engage with your audience.

    Reply to comments, answer questions, and create polls or stories that invite fans into your world.

    DON’T buy followers or fake engagement.
     It’s obvious. It’s embarrassing. And brands can tell.

    3. DO be authentic.

    Speak in your voice. Share your story—wins, losses, doubts, comebacks. Fans connect with real people, not curated robots.

    DON’T mimic influencers who aren’t athletes.
     You’re not a fitness model or a supplement shill—unless you want to be irrelevant in two years.

    4. DO collaborate with brands that match your values.

    If you believe in a product, use it, and can explain why, that’s a partnership—not a transaction.

    DON’T promote sketchy products or fad diets.
     One bad NIL deal can wreck your reputation. If it sounds like snake oil, it probably is.

    5. DO use high-quality visuals.

    Good lighting, steady framing, and thoughtful captions go a long way. Even a smartphone can create pro-level content now.

    DON’T post blurry, off-angle, or half-baked content.
     You’re not in a group chat. You’re building a portfolio.

    6. DO tell a story.

    Whether it’s a comeback from injury, a day-in-the-life, or your pregame rituals—narrative builds loyalty.

    DON’T just post random hype clips with rap beats.
     Unless there’s context, all we see is ego and noise.

    7. DO highlight your education and character.

    Brands—and future employers—like athletes with brains, purpose, and integrity. Show that you’re more than a stat sheet.

    DON’T trash talk, subtweet, or complain.
     Screenshots are forever. Emotionally tweet like you’re already in the NFL.

    8. DO maintain consistency.

    Post regularly, even during the offseason. That’s when the real connections are made.

    DON’T ghost your audience.
     Going silent for months makes it look like you only post when you’re winning.

    9. DO respect team rules and brand guidelines.

    If you’re repping a university or sponsor, know the line between personal and professional content.

    DON’T leak locker room drama.
     One bad post can get you benched, dropped, or worse—memed into oblivion.

    10. DO think long-term.

    Use social media to build a bridge to life after football—whether it’s coaching, media, business, or beyond.

    DON’T tie your entire identity to performance.
     Your value isn’t just in touchdowns. Build a brand that lasts longer than your playing career.

  • College Essay Prompt: Performance, Collapse, and the Hunger for Validation

    College Essay Prompt: Performance, Collapse, and the Hunger for Validation

    In the Black Mirror episode “Nosedive,” Lacie Pound carefully curates her public persona to climb the social ranking system, only to experience a spectacular breakdown when her performative identity collapses. Similarly, in the Netflix documentary Untold: The Liver King, Brian Johnson (aka the Liver King) constructs a hyper-masculine brand built on ancestral living and self-discipline, but his digital persona unravels after his steroid use is exposed—calling into question the authenticity of his entire identity.

    Drawing on insights from The Social Dilemma and Sherry Turkle’s TED Talk “Connected, but alone?”, write an 8-paragraph essay analyzing how both Lacie Pound and the Liver King experience breakdowns caused by the pressure to perform a marketable self online. Consider how their stories reveal broader truths about the emotional and psychological toll of living in a world where self-worth is measured through digital validation.

    Instructions:

    Your essay should have a clear thesis and be structured as follows:

    Paragraph 1 – Introduction

    • Briefly introduce Lacie Pound and the Liver King as case studies in digital performance.
    • State your thesis: What common psychological or social dynamic do their stories reveal about life in the attention economy?

    Paragraph 2 – The Rise of the Performed Self

    • Explain how Lacie and the Liver King construct public identities tailored for approval.
    • Use The Social Dilemma and/or Turkle to support your claim about the pressures of online self-curation.

    Paragraph 3 – The Collapse of Lacie Pound

    • Analyze the arc of Lacie’s breakdown.
    • Show how social scoring leads to isolation and emotional implosion.

    Paragraph 4 – The Unmasking of the Liver King

    • Describe how his confession undermines his brand.
    • Discuss the role of digital audiences in both elevating and dismantling him.

    Paragraph 5 – The Role of Tech Platforms

    • How do algorithms and platforms reward performance and punish authenticity?
    • Draw from The Social Dilemma for evidence.

    Paragraph 6 – The Illusion of Connection

    • Use Turkle’s TED Talk to explore how both characters are “connected, but alone.”
    • Consider their emotional lives behind the digital façade.

    Paragraph 7 – A Counterargument

    • Could it be argued that both Lacie and the Liver King benefited from their online identities, at least temporarily?
    • Briefly address and rebut this view.

    Paragraph 8 – Conclusion

    • Reaffirm your thesis.
    • Reflect on what their stories warn us about the future of identity, performance, and mental health in the digital age.

    Requirements:

    • MLA format
    • 4 sources minimum (episode, documentary, TED Talk, and one external article or scholarly source of your choice)
    • Include a Works Cited page

    Here are 7 ways Lacie Pound (Black Mirror: Nosedive) and the Liver King (Untold: The Liver King) were manipulated by social media into self-sabotage, drawn through the lens of The Social Dilemma and Sherry Turkle’s TED Talk “Connected, but alone?”:

    1. They Mistook Validation for Connection

    Turkle argues we’ve “sacrificed conversation for connection,” replacing real intimacy with digital approval.

    • Lacie chases ratings instead of relationships, slowly alienating herself from authentic human bonds.
    • The Liver King builds a global audience but admits to loneliness and insecurity beneath the performative bravado.

    2. They Became Addicted to the Performance of Perfection

    The Social Dilemma explains how platforms reward idealized personas, not authenticity.

    • Lacie’s entire life becomes a curated highlight reel of fake smiles and forced gratitude.
    • The Liver King obsessively maintains his primal-man image, even risking credibility and health to keep the illusion intact.

    3. They Were Trapped in an Algorithmic Feedback Loop

    Algorithms feed users what keeps them engaged—usually content that reinforces their current identity.

    • Lacie’s feed reflects her desire to be liked, pushing her deeper into a phony aesthetic.
    • The Liver King is incentivized to keep escalating his primal stunts—eating raw organs, screaming workouts—not because it’s healthy, but because it gets clicks.

    4. They Confused Metrics with Meaning

    The Social Dilemma reveals how “likes,” views, and follower counts hijack the brain’s reward system.

    • Lacie sees her social score as a measure of human worth.
    • The Liver King sees followers as a proxy for legacy and success—until the steroid scandal exposes the hollowness behind the numbers.

    5. They Substituted Self-Reflection with Self-Branding

    Turkle notes that in digital spaces, we “edit, delete, retouch” our lives. But that comes at the cost of honest self-understanding.

    • Lacie never pauses to ask who she is outside the algorithm’s gaze.
    • The Liver King becomes his own brand, losing sight of the person beneath the loincloth and beard.

    6. They Were Driven by Fear of Being Forgotten

    Both characters fear digital invisibility more than real-world failure.

    • Lacie’s panic when her rating drops is existential; she’s no one without her score.
    • The Liver King’s confession comes only after public exposure threatens his empire—because relevance, not truth, is the ultimate currency.

    7. They Reached a Breaking Point in Private but Fell Apart in Public

    The Social Dilemma highlights how tech is designed to capture our attention, not care for our well-being.

    • Lacie breaks down in front of an audience, her worst moment recorded and shared.
    • The Liver King’s undoing is broadcast to the same crowd that once idolized him—turning shame into spectacle.

    Three Sample Thesis Statements

    1. Basic (Clear & Focused):

    Both Lacie Pound and the Liver King suffer emotional breakdowns because they become trapped by the very social media systems they believe will bring them success, as shown through their obsession with validation, performance, and visibility.

    2. Intermediate (More Insightful):

    Lacie Pound and the Liver King, though separated by fiction and reality, both represent victims of an attention economy that rewards curated identities over authentic living—ultimately leading them to sacrifice mental health, integrity, and human connection for the illusion of approval.

    3. Advanced (Nuanced & Sophisticated):

    As Lacie Pound and the Liver King spiral into public self-destruction, their stories expose the way digital platforms—backed by algorithmic manipulation and cultural hunger for spectacle—transform the self into a brand, connection into currency, and identity into a high-risk performance that inevitably collapses under its own artifice.

  • Echo-Chamber Fatigue: When Trusted Media Starts to Sound Like Static

    Echo-Chamber Fatigue: When Trusted Media Starts to Sound Like Static

    For years, I counted The Bulwark and The Atlantic among the few media outlets that seemed to keep their heads above water. Thoughtful, principled, and often sharp in their critique, they offered a sense of clarity during a time when the political center felt like it was collapsing under the weight of tribalism. I read The Atlantic with the same reverence people once reserved for the Sunday paper. I tuned into The Bulwark’s podcasts with eagerness, particularly the sparring matches and tag-team lamentations of Sarah Longwell and JVL.

    But lately, something’s shifted.

    I’ve been struggling to name the feeling exactly—disenchantment, disconnection, even a touch of annoyance. It’s not that they’ve suddenly started publishing bad takes (though no one’s immune to that). It’s more that I’ve come to feel like I’m listening to the same looped monologue. Their arguments are often cogent, yes, but increasingly predictable—a chorus of like-minded voices rehearsing the same concerns, circling the same drain.

    Call it echo-chamber fatigue.

    The Bulwark, once a clarion voice of principled conservatism and a fierce watchdog against authoritarianism, now often feels like a room full of smart people endlessly rehashing the same grim diagnosis: American democracy is circling the drain. The problem isn’t that they’re wrong—it’s that I already see the collapse unfolding in real time. Listening to it dissected again and again isn’t cathartic anymore. It’s just salt in the wound.

    The Atlantic, long celebrated for its intellectual breadth, increasingly feels like it’s scanning for moral alignment before publishing an idea. There’s little friction. Little surprise. Just a gentle stroking of reader confirmation bias.

    Meanwhile, I find myself gravitating to media that feels more alive—podcasts like The Gist with Mike Pesca, Blocked and Reported with Katie Herzog and Jesse Singal, The Fifth Column, Ink-Stained Wretches, and even The Remnant with Jonah Goldberg. These shows don’t always align with my politics—and that’s exactly the point. They’re not trying to usher me into ideological safety. They’re wrestling with absurdities across the spectrum. They’re skeptical. Curious. Sometimes contrarian. Always human.

    And that, I think, is the deeper issue: emotional resonance. The Bulwark and The Atlantic haven’t necessarily changed. I have. Or perhaps the times have. I need more than agreement—I need tension, exploration, contradiction. The intellectual monoculture, no matter how principled, starts to feel like a sedative after a while.

    I’ve even considered canceling my subscriptions. But there’s friction there, too: The Atlantic remains a useful classroom resource, and every now and then, The Bulwark sparks a genuinely engaging dialogue that reminds me why I once admired it so much.

    So I stay, for now. But I’ve moved my ears—and increasingly, my attention—toward media that still surprises me. That still thinks out loud, rather than reading from a polished script.

    I’m not rejecting thoughtful media. I’m just bored of watching it slowly turn into liturgy.

  • Sociopathware: When “Social” Media Turns on You

    Sociopathware: When “Social” Media Turns on You

    Reading Richard Seymour’s The Twittering Machine is like realizing that Black Mirror isn’t speculative fiction—it’s journalism. Seymour depicts our digital lives not as a harmless distraction, but as a propaganda-laced fever swamp where we are less users than livestock—bred for data, addicted to outrage, and stripped of self-agency. Watching sociopathic tech billionaires rise to power makes a dark kind of sense once you grasp that mass digital degradation isn’t a glitch—it’s the business model. We’re not approaching dystopia. We’re soaking in it.

    Most of us are already trapped in Seymour’s machine, flapping like digital pigeons in a Skinner Box—pecking for likes, retweets, or one more fleeting dopamine pellet. We scroll ourselves into oblivion, zombified by clickbait and influencer melodrama. Yet, a flicker of awareness sometimes breaks through the haze. We feel it in our fogged-over thoughts, our shortened attention spans, and our anxious obsession with being “seen” by strangers. We suspect that something inside us is being hollowed out.

    But Seymour doesn’t offer false comfort. He cites a 2015 study in which people attempted to quit Facebook for 99 days. Most couldn’t make it past 72 hours. Many defected to Instagram or Twitter instead—same addiction, different flavor. Only a rare few fully unplugged, and they reported something radical: clarity, calm, and a sudden liberation from the exhausting treadmill of self-performance. They had severed the feed and stepped outside what philosopher Byung-Chul Han calls gamification capitalism—a regime where every social interaction is a data point, and every self is an audition tape.

    Seymour’s conclusion is damning: it’s time to retire the quaint euphemism “social media.” The phrase slipped into our cultural vocabulary like a charming grifter—suggesting friendly exchanges over digital lattes. But this is no buzzing café. It’s a dopamine-spewing Digital Skinner Box, where we tap and swipe like lab rats begging for validation. What we’re calling “social” is in fact algorithmic manipulation wrapped in UX design. We are not exchanging ideas—we are selling our attention for hollow engagement while surrendering our behavior to surveillance capitalists who harvest us like ethical-free farmers with no livestock regulations.

    Richard Seymour calls this system The Twittering Machine. Byung-Chul Han calls it gamification capitalism. Anna Lembke, in Dopamine Nation, calls it overstimulation as societal collapse. And thinkers studying Algorithmic Capture say we’ve reached the point where we no longer shape technology—technology shapes us. Let’s be honest: this isn’t “social media.” It’s Sociopathware. It’s addiction media. It’s the slow, glossy erosion of the self, optimized for engagement, monetized by mental disintegration.

    Here’s the part you won’t hear in a TED Talk or an onboarding video: Sociopathware was never designed to serve you. It was built to study you—your moods, fears, cravings, and insecurities—and then weaponize that knowledge to keep you scrolling, swiping, and endlessly performing. Every “like” you chase, every selfie you tweak, every argument you think you’re winning online—those are breadcrumbs in a maze you didn’t design. The longer you’re inside it, the more your sense of self becomes an avatar—algorithmically curated, strategically muted, optimized for appeal. That’s not agency. That’s submission in costume. And the more you rely on these platforms for validation, identity, or even basic social interaction, the more control you hand over to a machine that profits when you forget who you really are. If you value your voice, your mind, and your ability to think freely, don’t let a dashboard dictate your personality.

  • We Are Lost Inside the Mentalluvium

    We Are Lost Inside the Mentalluvium

    We are staggering through an unprecedented fugue state—an acute disorientation born of our immersion in the social media Chumstream, a digital shark tank where recycled outrage, trauma bait, and influencer chum swirl together in a frothy, click-hungry frenzy. It’s not a stream so much as a bloody whirlpool, designed to keep us circling, feeding, and forgetting.

    Gurwinder Bhogal, a rare voice of reason in this algorithmic carnival, broke it down on Josh Szeps’ Uncomfortable Conversations. Social media, he said, isn’t just addictive—it’s engineered by tech lords who know exactly how to hijack your brain. Blue light. Intermittent dopamine rewards. Infinite scroll. Welcome to the digital casino, a neon maze with no clocks, no windows, and no exits—only flashing notifications and the creeping sense that your life is being siphoned off one swipe at a time.

    In this fever swamp of the self, people aren’t just bored—they’re bloated. Stuffed with half-digested TED Talk wisdom, viral symptom checklists, and influencer pathology. They gorge on intellectual junk food and, as Bhogal put it, suffer from “intellectual obesity.” Diagnoses become identities, and confusion is recast as empowerment. It’s not that they have ADHD, long Covid, autism, or gender dysmorphia—it’s that they scroll into them, self-diagnosing in real time, latching onto whatever trending malaise grants them a fleeting sense of belonging in the void.

    These are not charlatans. These are casualties. Belief becomes ballast in a digital landscape where nothing is anchored. They wander through the cognitive casino, zombified, dislocated, convinced that a diagnostic label is the same as self-knowledge, and that performative suffering is the highest form of authenticity.

    What we’re experiencing isn’t just burnout. It’s Mentalluvium—the psychic sludge left behind after gorging on content. It’s the mental silt of endless scrolling: micro-identities, algorithm-approved neuroses, and dopamine-smeared fragments of truth. We are not thinking. We are sedimenting.

    If this is hell, it didn’t come with flames. It came with filters.

  • From Gutenberg to Doomscroll: A Brief History of Our Narrative Decline

    From Gutenberg to Doomscroll: A Brief History of Our Narrative Decline

    Richard Seymour, in The Twittering Machine, reminds us that writing was once a sacred act—a cerebral pilgrimage and a cultural compass. It charted the peaks of human enlightenment and the valleys of our collective idiocy. But ever since Gutenberg’s movable type cranked out the first printed tantrum, writing has also been big business. Seymour calls this “print capitalism”—a factory of words that forged what Benedict Anderson dubbed “imagined communities,” and what Yuval Noah Harari might call humanity’s favorite pastime: building civilizations on beautifully told lies.

    But that was then. Enter the computer—a Pandora’s box with a backspace key. We haven’t just changed how we write; we’ve scrambled the very code of our narrative DNA. Seymour scoffs at the term “social media.” He prefers something more honest and unflinching: “shorthand propaganda.” After all, writing was always social—scrolls, letters, manifestos scrawled in exile. The novelty isn’t the connection; it’s the industrialization of thought. Now, we produce a firehose of content—sloppy, vapid, weaponized by ideology, and monetized by tech lords playing dopamine dealers.

    The term “social media” flatters what is more accurately a “social industry”—a Leviathan of data-harvesting, behavioral conditioning, and emotional slot machines dressed in UX sugar-coating. The so-called “friends” we collect are nothing more than pawns in a gamified economy of clout, their every click tracked, sold, and repurposed to make us addicts. Sherry Turkle wasn’t being cute when she warned that our connections were making us lonelier: she was diagnosing a slow psychological implosion.

    We aren’t writing anymore. We’re twitching. We’re chirping. We’re flapping like those emaciated birds in Paul Klee’s the Twittering Machine, spinning an axle we no longer control, bait for the next poor soul. This isn’t communication. It’s entrapment, dressed up in hashtags and dopamine hits.

  • The Twittering Machine Never Sleeps

    The Twittering Machine Never Sleeps

    Richard Seymour, in his searing dissection of our digital descent, The Twittering Machine, argues that our compulsive scribbling across social media isn’t a charming side effect of modern communication—it’s a horror story. He calls our affliction “scripturient,” which sounds like a medieval disease and feels like one too: the raging, unquenchable urge to write, tweet, post, blog, caption, and meme ourselves into validation. According to Seymour, we’re not sharing—we’re hemorrhaging content, possessed by the hope that someone, somewhere, will finally pay attention. The platforms lap it up, feeding on our existential howl like pigs at a trough.

    But here’s the twist: these platforms don’t just amplify our words—they mutate us. We contort into parodies of ourselves, honed for likes, sharpened for outrage. Seymour’s reference to Paul Klee’s painting the Twittering Machine isn’t just arty window dressing—it’s prophecy. In it, skeletal birds crank a machine with the desperate chirps of bait, luring the next batch of fools into the algorithmic abyss. Once captured, these chirpers become part of the machine: chirp, crank, scroll, repeat. It’s not connection—it’s servitude with emojis.

    And yet, here I am. Writing this blog. Voluntarily. On WordPress, that semi-respectable cul-de-sac just outside the main drag of Social Media Hell. It’s not Facebook, which is a digital Thunderdome of outrage, memes, and unsolicited opinions from high school classmates you forgot existed. No, WordPress lets me stretch out. I can write without worrying that my paragraph won’t survive the swipe-happy thumbs of the attention-deficient. It feels almost…literary.

    But let’s not get smug. The moment I promote my posts on Twitter or check my analytics like a rat pressing a pellet bar, I’m caught in the same trap. I tell myself it’s different. That I’m writing for meaning, not metrics. But the line between writer and performer, between expression and spectacle, gets blurrier by the day. I’ve escaped the Twittering Machine before—unplugged, deleted, detoxed—but it still hums in the background, always ready to pull me back in with the promise of just one more click, one more like, one more little chirp of relevance.

  • DeDopaminification: Breaking Up with the Machine That Loves You Too Much

    DeDopaminification: Breaking Up with the Machine That Loves You Too Much

    DeDopaminification is the deliberate and uncomfortable process of recalibrating the brain’s reward circuitry after years—sometimes decades—of synthetic overstimulation. It’s what happens when you look your phone in the face and whisper, “It’s not me, it’s you.” In a culture addicted to frictionless pleasure and frictionless communication, DeDopaminification means reintroducing friction on purpose. It’s the detox of the soul, not with celery juice, but with withdrawal from digital dopamine driplines—apps, feeds, alerts, porn, outrage, and validation loops disguised as “engagement.”

    In Alone Together, Sherry Turkle diagnosed the psychic fragmentation wrought by constant digital interaction: we’ve become people who talk less but text more, who perform connection while starving for authenticity. In one of her most haunting observations, she notes how teens feel panicked without their phones—not because they’re afraid of missing messages, but because they fear missing themselves in the mirror of others’ attention. Turkle’s world is one where dopamine dependency isn’t just neurological—it’s existential. We’ve been trained to outsource our worth to the algorithmic gaze.

    Anne Lembke’s Dopamine Nation picks up this thread like a clinical slap to the face. Lembke, a Stanford psychiatrist, makes it plain: the modern world is engineered to overstimulate us into oblivion. Pleasure is no longer earned—it’s swipeable. Whether it’s TikTok, sugar, or digital outrage, our brains are being rewired to expect fireworks where there used to be a slow-burning candle. Lembke writes that to reset our internal reward systems, we must embrace discomfort—yes, want less, enjoy silence, and learn how to sit with boredom like it’s a spiritual practice.

    DeDopaminification is not some puritanical rejection of pleasure. It’s the fight to reclaim pleasure that isn’t bankrupting us. It’s deleting TikTok not because you’re better than it, but because it’s better than you—so good it’s lethal. It’s deciding that your attention span deserves a tombstone with dignity, not a death-by-scroll. It’s not heroic or Instagrammable. In fact, it’s boring, slow, sometimes lonely—but it’s also real. And that’s what makes it revolutionary.