What ISP even operates at the North Pole?

Dear Santa,

I know this letter is a bit late, in both the “you’re making your rounds tomorrow night” sense and the “I haven’t believed in you as anything but a social construct in almost two decades” sense. Still, there are some things you simply can’t ask anyone else for, either because you’re enough of a freeloader as is or because they don’t exist yet. Thus, please find my Christmas list below. (Don’t worry, I’ve already been given the gift of chronically lowered expectations.)

  • A simple, portable teleportation device without any of the philosophical quandaries that might be posed by disassembling my constituent parts and sticking them back together elsewhere. I will say I want this so I can travel the world on the cheap and see all of my far-flung friends and family, and these things are entirely true. Let’s be real, though, Santa; I mostly want this because my sense of how much time any given thing will take is skewed, and I would like for people not to hate me for my unorthodox approach to punctuality.
  • A mattress. I had to throw out my old one in June because it was collapsing in several places and all but saturated with cat piss, and in the absence of either the funds for a new mattress or feasible transport for a used one, I’ve been sleeping on a couch for the last six months. My lower back feels like small children have been using it as a trampoline.
  • A subcutaneous Klonopin pump that can track my cortisol levels and preempt panic attacks before I find myself curled up in a public bathroom stall trying to count tiles to distract myself.
  • A gigantic down comforter large enough to wrap myself in several times over. I don’t want to be able to see daylight. (why is this not a thing)
  • The restored ability to write three consecutive sentences without having to stop and insert a placeholder because my brain is working in elliptical orbits and I can’t make it power through what I want to say in any straightforward manner.
  • Fuck it, we’ll go for big pipe dreams. (I’m sorry, Santa. I’m not very good at watching my language. I try to hold my tongue around small children and the chronically infirm.) A modestly sized house in livable condition in or near the city that is fully paid off, because I don’t think I’ve lived anywhere in my adult life where I’ve felt justified in unpacking every single box. The decor can be positively hideous. I will welcome it with open arms.
  • An end to our society’s glorification of willful ignorance.
  • A bottomless bag of Sour Patch Kids.

Thanks, Santa. I promise I’ve been pretty okay this year. Hope you like Three-Buck Chuck with your snickerdoodles.

Love,
K

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Senses working overtime

It’s been a while, hasn’t it, blog?

I’ve been writing elsewhere, certainly. The majority of my verbal efforts go towards work now, ’cause hacks gotta get paid. I come up with ideas for posts to make here, sure, and often, but I keep meeting a resistance I’ve been hard-pressed to explain until recently. Now that it’s gotten to the point where every scroll through my RSS reader or Facebook feed exhausts me, I think I’m figuring it out.

To state it as simply as I can: I’m overwhelmed. Information overload is nothing new, including to me. Especially to me. I’ve spent sixteen years obsessively using the Internet to try to satisfy every minor curiosity that flits through my mind. I’ve courted it from day one.

Lately, though, the glut of poorly-informed opinions and rehashed content has started to feel more like “too much” than ever before. And when you’re already depressed and well past the “it’s complicated” relationship stage with self-doubt, it’s damn near impossible to feel like you’re doing anything but skewing the signal-to-noise ratio further when you try to write down your own dumb thoughts about something.

Rationally, I know this is nonsense. Anything you write can shed light on an unconsidered aspect of a topic, provide an unheard perspective, turn a lovely phrase, or at least crack a joke no one’s thought of yet. I read things online every day that make me kvell that they exist, even as I kick myself for not thinking of it first. But is Sturgeon’s Law also in play? Of course it is. Same as it ever was. And most of the time I fail to convince myself that I can crawl out of the 90%.

(I recognize that these complaints are, in and of themselves, deeply unoriginal. I fear I’m straddling some line between teenage angst and curmudgeonliness. None of you whippersnappers understand me; get off my mom’s lawn.)

Is there a solution for this? Maybe not. Keep writing and posting and ignoring the sense of an infinite feedback loop? Gather my ovaries and get over myself? Get the fuck off Facebook for a bit? Probably all of the above. Stay tuned.