The Book of Wild states that, shortly after discovering (and inadvertently inhaling) large quantities of quantum fluid leaking from the as yet undiscovered PCT interdimensional rift in April of 2014, Reese Witherspoon was visited in a vision by the demigod John Muir. Muir warned that blatant disregard for facts and intellectual rigor in American discourse had caused a massive tear in spacetime that, if left unaddressed, would soon rend the continent asunder and open a permanent portal to a dimension ruled by self-obsessed oompah loompahs with tiny hands and no respect for empiricism. Muir decreed unto Witherspoon that an eternity of chaos and suffering was assured unless an intrepid hiker could seal the rift permanently by walking an unbroken path along its entirety in a single season. I intend to be that hiker.

WORKING IS REALLY HARD AND STRESSFUL. TO DEAL WITH THAT STRESS I RELY ON UNHEALTHY COPING MECHANISMS. I DISTRACT MYSELF FROM MY PROBLEMS WITH TV SHOWS, MOVIES, PODCASTS, AND SOCIAL MEDIA. EXAMINING THIS BEHAVIOR ESCALATES MY ANXIETY, COMPELLING ME TO LEAN HARDER ON MY COPING MECHANISMS INSTEAD OF ADDRESSING THEM.

MOST OF THE TIME, I HOLD IT TOGETHER. I GET THROUGH THE DAY AND DO WHAT NEEDS TO BE DONE. BUT SOMETIMES THE STRESS ESCALATES, OR I HAVE AN EXPERIENCE THAT REMINDS ME OF THE TRUTH OF MY SITUATION IN LIFE; WHAT I’M SACRIFICING TO PARTICIPATE IN THIS CIRCUS. MY DISCIPLINE STARTS TO WAVER. A MOMENT COMES WHERE I HAVE TO EXECUTE.

I PANIC.

THERES HARD WORK THAT I NEED TO DO. I DONT KNOW HOW TO DO IT.

MY BRAIN SHUTS. THE FUCK. DOWN. IT DESPERATELY GRASPS FOR ANY DISTRACTION IT CAN FIND. I SUBMIT TO THE FEAR, ONLY FOR FOR AN INSTANT.

FROM THAT MOMENT FORWARD IT HAS TOTAL CONTROL. IM LOCKED IN THE ESCAPE. ITS BLISSFUL, WHILE IT WORKS, BUT THE ESCAPE CANT LAST FOREVER. CONSEQUENCES ACCUMULATE. SHOWS END.

THERE ARE FEW THINGS MORE TERRIFYING THAN THE CREDITS ON THE LAST EPISODE OF THE LAST SEASON OF A TV SHOW. PANIC CRASHES OVER ME LIKE A WAVE. I IMMEDIATELY RESTART THE SHOW FROM THE FIRST EPISODE, IT DISTRACTS ME A FOR A MOMENT, MAYBE HALF AN EPISODE IF I’M LUCKY, BUT ITS NOT THE SAME. THE NOVELTY IS GONE. MY MIND STARTS TO WANDER BACK TO THE GHASTLY RUMINATIONS IVE BEEN AVOIDING AND THE PANIC SETS IN AGAIN WITH A VENGEANCE. I FLEE INTO THE NETFLIX MENU, RIFLING THROUGH EVERY SUGGESTED TITLE. NOTHING LOOKS APPEALING.

TOO DARK, TOO REAL, TOO CONTRIVED, TOO SLOW, TOO FAST, TOO OLD, TOO CEREBRAL. EACH NEW THUMBNAIL ONLY AMPLIFIES THE NAUSEA. I NEED SOMETHING ENGROSSING BUT NOT CHALLENGING; SOMETHING POWERFUL ENOUGH TO KEEP ME DISTRACTED FROM THE UNBEARABLE KNOWLEDGE THAT I EXIST AND THE UNACCEPTABLE CONSEQUENCES OF THAT FACT.

I’m a strong person. I can and do deal with this, but it’s a lot harder than it should be. I’m fighting against the brightest minds and deepest pockets in our society. We live in a world where staggering amounts of resources are spent making sure I continue to consume the bottomless supply of high octane distractions that fuel our economy. The thing that makes this addiction so confusing to navigate is that I get so much value out of the distractions. They are sources of meaning in my life; beautiful, challenging stories and ideas that enrich my experience of the world. But it’s clear that my consumption of these stories has become abuse. The relentless incentives that have been carefully cultivated like weeds in the garden of my prosthetic phone-brain have warped my relationship to culture so dramatically that I think I’d be better off with no media at all, at least until I can get my bearings.