I turned 40 a couple of weeks ago and thought it’d be a good opportunity to reflect, piecemeal, on where I find myself in life, the universe, and this whole self-improvement thing.

Psuedo

The pseudoephedrine has been left in Australia lest I be convicted as a drug dealer and I’m already missing it in anticipation of my next cold. Of course, the flippant joke article I dashed off about using cold medicine for self-improvement inevitably became the most popular thing I have written for this newsletter. This is extremely funny.

The sleep stuff is sorted, for now

I’ve written a lot about sleep, and how I felt I wasn’t getting enough of it. I’m still really interested in the topic but I’m happy to report that (largely thanks to my son taking up sleeping through the night) I am now getting enough sleep that I don’t feel like I’m in a permanent fugue state. The other big reason for not getting enough sleep was spending too much time playing video games, which has been solved by:

Lifting weights

Panaceas are never real, and it’s still early days, but weight-lifting looks like one of those rare things that solves several problems all at once. Making your body tired makes sleep much less optional, and the temptation to play video games late into the night goes entirely away when your arms are too munted from DOMS to pick up a controller. Plus, if you want weight-lifting to actually do anything to your body, you need to be getting sleep. The counterpoint is that getting out of bed is as difficult than ever. I’m pretty sure my body’s preferred chronotype is Night Owl and it’ll probably never change, but for now I’ll settle for finding it easier to get to bed earlier.

Cold showers

I wrote about the cold shower thing a few weeks back now and I’m still enjoying it as much as when I first started a year ago. A bunch of commenters said they’d given it a hoon and were getting a good buzz out of it. I hadn’t mentioned yet that I’ve also given a year to that classic self-improvement bugbear (and one of Jordan Balthazar Peterson’s 12 Rules): making your bed every morning. The results are jaw-dropping!1 I’ll write about it soon.

Journal Ling

The spell check refuses to acknowledge “journaling” so I’ve allowed it to insist on “journal ling.” This, for the curious, is a ling:

I started keeping a journal again, not for any of the purported self-improvement benefits, but because I was alarmed to look back at the previous decade or so and have next to no idea what happened in it. The phenomenon of time speeding up as you age is real to the point that it’s become a cliche, and everyone I know comments on how time seems to have frozen solid circa 2016, but what really alarms me is not being able to remember important personal things. They say hindsight is 20/20, but that’s a lie; looking back is like staring into a rapidly-thickening cataract fog, and the more you age the blurrier it gets. Clearly, I need to write life down so it makes sense. Also, my handwriting was becoming terrible.

Obviously this newsletter is a kind of public journal too, so I guess I’m attacking it on two fronts.

Rage, rage against

I am angry.

I think in everyday life I come off as an affable sort but underneath simmers a constant low-key fury. This is a dangerously uncool thing to admit to, least of all because you might come off as the sort of person who’d unironically create a meme like this:

I think my saving grace is what I’m angry at: it’s mainly climate change, and our carefully-engineered inability to do anything meaningful about it. A thought that occurs to me at least a few dozen times a day is that in a sane world, we’d be bending all of humanity’s considerable ingenuity to the task of halting mass extinction. It’d be the biggest project in the history of civilisation, a human mobilisation dwarfing World War Two, for even greater stakes, and there’d be a job in it for anyone who wanted one. Instead, we have the real, reality-denying world, where we2 are carrying on with business-as-usual to ruinous effect, and those of us who’d like to do something often find ourselves trapped. I have written about this before, once or twice, but I almost never stop thinking about it. Others are writing about it too, and often a piece of their despair and grief catches me and starts my wheels spinning again.

Denied any real outlet, the anger comes out at importune times, like: when sucking at Halo, scrubbing at a chunk of toddler-discarded Weetbix with the consistency of concrete, or when repeatedly vacuuming at a pet hair that inexplicably just won’t fucking move. Perhaps there is a better way. Now I’m 40 I think I can make a friend — or at least an ally — of anger, and put it to good use, as others have.

Logjam

A side-effect of a much needed holiday is that everything you didn’t do while you were resting smashes you the moment you’re home, often negating the effects of any rest you managed to get. Yesterday I felt like I was losing my mind with everything I hadn’t done pulling me apart, like hooks in my flesh attached to heavy wire and relentless winches. Louise heard me out, sat me down, made a list, helped me pick two things to concentrate on, and made me sane again.

With a day or so of relative clarity I can see that the more I feel I have to do, the less likely I am to get anything done. The logs jam in the waterway of my mind and the poor executive function lumberjack hops across them fretting over which one to hack at. The answer is the same thing it always is: just fucking pick one.

I am frustrated that after 40 years of being alive this has not yet sunk in.

Epiphany

I read this XKCD at least 15 years ago now and it was a dagger in the gut. Not because of the pickup artist thing — I might write about that at some point because of its roots in self-improvement culture, and because it seems to have morphed into a social movement that might actually be much worse — but because I’ve never been able to stop thinking about the last three panels:

I sometimes wonder how many other flimsy 20-something male egos Randall inadvertently destroyed with this particular extremely funny comic. Now I am 40, the effect is even worse. If it hits you hard too, let me know, and we’ll bask in our shared misery.

Yeet the phone

Fuck smartphones, fuck software manufacturers for making them addictive, and fuck society for embracing them so comprehensively you can’t live without one. Every time you, and by you I mean me, pick the thing up and check a notification you’re being yanked out of whatever you actually wanted to be doing and imposing a heavy mental cost to getting back on track, turning your life into one long, barely-controlled stall. I am slowly learning that I can’t actually get much done with a smartphone anywhere near me (or any other sort of notification going “ping” and bouncing around my brain like a wreeecking balllll)

The spider bite

When it comes to self-improvement I think a lot of us want it to be a bit like in Spider-Man where Peter Parker wakes up suddenly swole, able to backflip tall buildings in a single bound, jizz from his wrists, and indirectly murder his relatives. At least two of those things sound wonderful. Self-improvement tomes are full of stories of people who had some kind of life epiphany (see XKCD comic above) and suddenly gained that most super of powers: the ability to change. I do not doubt that this actually happens — I know too many people who have abruptly and permanently stopped drinking4 to disbelieve in the epiphany’s power — but at 40 I feel like I’ve enough life events under my belt to realise you can only really diagnose an epiphany in hindsight.

Birds

For my birthday I got up at 5 am and drove for an hour and a half to reach O’Reilly’s in Lamington National Park, Queensland, just as dawn was breaking. My brother and his partner had invited me out to see a bird they hadn’t managed to spot yet: this sprightly fella.

In a nice bit of serendipity my brother and partner arrived at the exact same time I did and we saw the Regent before we’d even left the car park. A birding tour had just showed up and the local avian residents realised it was feeding time.5 There were only a few people on the birding tour and they invited us to join them. Within a few minutes walk we’d seen or hand-fed a few dozen species including white-browed scrub wrens, Eastern Yellow robins, logrunners, whip-birds, satin bowerbirds, and more. We were stoked. It was probably the best birthday morning I have ever had.

I was already feeling a bit choked up about how goddamn nice this all was and then my immediate family made it much worse by throwing a barbecue and banding together to buy me a really good pair of birding binoculars. I’ve been told I’m hard to buy for because I have off-kilter interests and tend to impulsively purchase stuff I want anyway, but this present really touched me. A good gift — new, second-hand, activity-based, it doesn’t matter which — can do that. Someone did the hard mahi to figure out the state of your soul and what you currently lack, and drew a line correctly connecting the two.

Things are good, actually

It is easy to get wrapped up in everything you aren’t, or don’t have. The shifting baseline lies to you, meaning that even when you objectively improve you still feel like you’re standing still. Add this to the fact that the world is in a precariously dire way on any number of fronts and you have a recipe for despair. But: I have a good life. I have an incredible, beautiful wife and wonderful son. I have an interesting job that keeps us fed and watered and housed. On that note, somehow I own (about 20 percent of) my home. And there is space in my life to see family and go birding and bask in the beauty of the world we inhabit, if only for a while.

As cheesy as that might sound to some, at 40, I might finally be past caring.

Gidday Cynics,

I’m on holiday in Straya at the moment so you’re enjoying a shorter newsletter than normal.

You’re in luck, though, because this newsletter contains my number one life pro tip: one weird trick that doctors may or may not hate, an incredible life hack that can turn grey skies blue and smash a head-cold into the Sun.

It is, of course, pseudoephedrine. And guess where it’s still legal?

I’m still a bit crook, because apparently spending winter with a toddler who attends preschool is just an unceasing series of practically Biblical plagues. So after developing a monster head cold — either the tail end of my previous malaise or the pointy end of something else — I waltzed Matilda into a chemist to see if they could supply a cold medicine with actual active ingredients.

Turns out, after giving them enough personal details to keep an ID thief happy for years, they could. On my packet of generic cold medicine, the pseudoephedrine is advertised as a “decongestant.” This is technically correct, in much the same way that heroin is an effective cough medicine, but it’s not the point. The point is that pseudo makes you feel amazing. When it comes to self-improvement, I know of nothing that more instantly improves one’s self. When you’re laid low with a cold getting some pseudo in you is like biting into a radioactive spider. You come out swinging.

But being able to regain a semblance of functionality while ill has a dark side. And, unlike Australia, New Zealand was wise enough to see it.

It’s yet another timely reminder that, apart from small matters like the weather, the economy, the price of living, public transport, wildlife variety, beaches, outdoor recreation in general, sporting prowess, public health care, and probably a few other things, New Zealand is far superior to Australia. In New Zealand, we can see the wool for the trees. Long ago, we realised that over-the-counter pseudoephedrine was fuelling a methamphetamine epidemic. Sure, most actual meth ingredients were being imported through black market channels by criminal gangs, rather than being bought over the counter by desperate mules, and there are plenty of ways to make meth that don’t involve pseudoephedrine at all, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that at some stage, over-the-counter pseudoephedrine might have been used to make meth.

Luckily, unlike in the Lucky Country, our leaders were willing to take a stand. At the time, New Zealand was governed by a wise and powerful political party called John Key, and it was about to make its most momentous political decision: banning cold medicine. With a single stroke, John Key would end the meth epidemic in New Zealand, and all it would cost was permanently immiserating the millions of Kiwis who suffer from colds. This was back in 2009: here’s how the media reported the decision at the time.

Prime Minister John Key is convinced all Kiwis stand to gain from his decision to designate pseudoephedrine a Class B2 drug.

He wants hundreds of thousands of law abiding citizens to do the decent thing – forgo using their perfectly legal and effective cold medication and snuffle in silence in the fight against “P” (“pure” methamphetamine).

“I think New Zealanders are fair-minded enough to see that,” Key said in an opinion piece in the Herald outlining his “war on P” initiatives.

And look how well that turned out! Crime is at record lows. Methamphetamine is only used for legitimate purposes, like keeping Spitfire pilots awake. No-one ram-raids anyone for anything. After banning a widely-used, seldom-abused, and incredibly effective cold medication for the greater good, New Zealand is, at long last, a P-free utopia.

Or at least I assume it is. Let’s see what the news has to say. I’ll just do a quick Google and…

Well. That was in 2018, only nine years after banning pseudoephedrine! Perhaps the ban took a while to bed in. Today, in 2023, things must surely be better.

What’s this? Could the evidence show that blanket drug prohibition simply doesn’t work? Does this suggest that we banned the single most easy, effective and accessible way to improve your miserable cold-addled life for no fucking good reason?

With that epiphany under our belts, let’s take a step back. In the recent past, pseudoephedrine may as well have been manufactured and marketed by Influenza Inc. The idea was that you might start the day a gibbering fever-wracked wreck but a couple of Codrals would sort you out to the point that you could stride confidently into the office and gift your germs to every single co-worker. It was probably less effective at spreading germs than tongue-kissing an entire commuter train, but only slightly. This ad gives a good impression of the wildly problematic vibe:

Now that Covid is over1, things have changed.2 It is, in some circles at least, frowned upon to go into work while sick, the better to cough into your co-workers’ open mouths. This is a net good, but sometimes — to pick an example not at all at random — you get sick, and then your wife gets it, and then your two-year-old son gets it, and even though your bronchial tubes and sinuses resemble the Yellow River in flood you still have to get up and make breakfast and do dishes and do the stuff you do to pay the mortgage. In short, you must soldier on, if only via Zoom. Of course you should lie down and take the rest you need but there are times in your life when you simply can’t.

If I have to be sick, I’d like the chance to feel capable of doing the needful during the day before gratefully collapsing into bed. Yes, there are longer and more nuanced discussions to be had about taking self-improvement in tablet form, or capitalism’s insistence on carrying on while crook, but I feel it’s entirely reasonable to feel shortchanged by some politician’s clumsy attempt to be Tough On Crime by removing an entire country’s access to medicine. And maybe, just maybe, there are larger lessons to be learned about the ineffectiveness of wholesale drug prohibition.

All this is a long way of saying that any political party that runs for election on the platform of restoring pseudoephedrine to its rightful place on New Zealand pharmacy shelves will win in a fucking landslide.

Share if U agree!!!1!

Thanks for reading. Don’t worry about me. It’s not Covid, I’m feeling much better, I’m enjoying my holiday, and I’ve got pseudoephedrine to thank for it. None of this really has anything to do with self-help but I have helped my self by ranting about it. Thank you for your time.

Gidday Cynics,

My routine has, as routinely happens, gone completely to shit. I mentioned that I’d got sick: barring a nagging cough, I am now pretty much better, so naturally my wife and son wanted a turn. The routine for the last couple of weeks looks something like this:

• Wake up at 2 am to crying child
• Soothe son back to sleep with a story so boring he can’t help but nod off
• (Repeat)
• Wake up at marginally more civilized hour
• Cough
• Spit
• Cough
• (Repeat as often as necessary)
• Get son up
• Food
• Cryotherapy
• Look after son
• Work
• Food
• Look after son
• Work
• Takeaways
• Sleep?

And so on. Happily, they’re both getting better, and I am once again finding time to go to the Place Of Picking Up Heavy Things And Putting Them Down Again, with the goal of becoming swole. That’s all very new and pain-inducing, so ask me about it again if I manage to stick at it for more than a few months.

In the meantime, let’s talk about something in the self-improvement vein I have managed to stick to.

The portable ocean

For a lot of people, “get in the sea,” is sound life advice. It definitely is for me.

I can’t think of many things I like better than ocean swimming. The one real regret in my life, currently, is that I don’t live closer to the sea. In an another universe, or possibly several, there is a version of me who lives in a shack on the beach, talks to driftwood, and swims every day. I definitely prefer my current life, which comes with a comfy house and a wonderful wife and son, but I have no doubt that my mad alternate-universe self is very happy, because he’s near the ocean.

There’s just something special about getting in the sea. I much prefer it to touching grass, which at this time of year is mainly mud with far too many tiny slugs in it. The ocean might be full of uncountable trillions of viruses and millions of dead bodies, but swimming in it is just so relentlessly great that it’s difficult to describe without resorting to poetry. When it is warm, you can float and laze, buoyed by the waves; when it’s cold the shock of immersion surges like electricity.

Then there’s the thrill of surfing1. No matter the time of year or ocean temperature, there’s not much that compares to the rush of that first plunge, as you leap into and under a wave and feel the surge and push of raw power wash over you. To ride a wave is to be humbled and exhilarated all at once: it is to meet a power much greater than you, an inhuman force that will drown and grind and eat you, and — for a moment — dance with it.

People have been seeking out the seaside to improve health for a long time. The Victorians saw “sea air” as a cure for everything from consumption and rheumaticks to good old-fashioned hysteria. Today, there are plenty of efforts to scientifically quantify the benefits of getting wet, but I believe this is one of those cases where you can trust the evidence of your eyes. If this video of what happens when autistic kids are taken surfing doesn’t prompt a shed tear, I’m not sure what will.

I have my own, entirely unscientific, experience of using the ocean as a cure. I used to get head colds a lot as a kid; luckily, we lived near the beach. Once I was old enough to drive I’d go to Matauri Bay, still one of my favourite places in the world, and go bodysurfing. After getting tumbled over the falls a few times my nose would be a fire hydrant of snot; it’s really something, just how voluminous sinuses really are. Push on one nostril, blow hard; bye-bye head cold, hello dubious fish food. Every time I pick up a head cold now, like I did last week, all I can think of is how much I want to go swimming.

But now I’m a landlocked dad with responsibilities and a two-hour round trip from the nearest beach. So what to do?

I take the ocean with me.

That’s right: I’m a Cold Shower Guy.

I’m surprised it took me so long to cotton on to cold showers. I started taking them just over a year ago and, apart from when I’ve been seriously crook, I’ve had one every day since. It began, of course, with a trip to the sea. Some overseas friends were staying over and they found themselves without a ride to Hawke’s Bay. I offered to chauffeur the five-hour drive. It wasn’t exactly altruism: I needed a break from some troubling work stuff and I figured I’d be able to squeeze in a swim. And I did. We went to Ocean Beach — there are about a thousand Ocean Beaches in New Zealand — and I got in the water like a bullet. I was tired and stressed and anxious and it all vanished the moment the icy water closed over my head. It was the middle of winter but I felt like I could have stayed out there for hours.

When I emerged, I felt cleansed, baptized, born again, refreshed, reset. A funny thing happens when you’ve been exerting yourself in cold water; as gravity reasserts itself and circulation returns to your extremities, you feel the warmth of your own blood, the heat of your own skin.

I thought: there’s something in this. And: Isn’t there some guy who advocates cold swimming?

There is. There’s a good chance you’ve heard of him too.

I drove home the same day, and listened to most of The Wim Hof Method on audiobook on the way. I found it… frustrating. It’s a bizarre mix of mysticism, genuinely impressive athletic feats, obvious pseudoscience, some (potentially) real science, weird personality-cult stuff, and — in between all that —  an interesting and often tragic life story. Today, these compelling ingredients have combined to make Wim Hof a wealthy bro-science hero. Every damned alt-right-adjacent influencer in the world is taking Instagram reels of self-immersion in a custom-built ice bath and talking up unproven “benefits” like testosterone gain or fat loss. It’s almost enough to put me off cold showers entirely.

Almost.

As someone who’s prone to sudden enthusiasms and brief fancies, the only reason I ever continue anything for as long as a full year is because I genuinely like it. Cold showers are uncomfortable, but in a comforting way. I start with a normal hot shower (side note: for the longest time in human history, hot showers would have been an exception rather than a norm) and when I’m pretty much done I flip the shower knob to the full-bore cold setting. It’s a shock, every time. The cold water hits my back, and I’ll gasp, or involuntarily yip. Spin around, soak the chest, plunge my head under. It’s awful; but then something in my brain trips and I’m in the cold ocean, a wave passing over my head in that muffled-thunder way, and everything seems to slow and stop.

The time I actually spend under the cold water varies, but it’s usually anywhere from 30 seconds to several minutes. No matter how long I spend, when I hop out, there’s that buzzy warm feeling. Those old, unhinged “How it feels to chew 5 Gum” ads are the closest I can come to articulating both how cold showers are simultaneously silly and superlative:

But the cold shower connection to woo and pseudocience and fundamentally shitty people remains disturbing. It takes next to no effort to find social media feeds full of griftfluencers boasting about how their cold plunge habit has made given them even bigger dicks (Sign up now for my cold plunge crash course and SAVE!) It’s got to the point where if you say “cold shower” three times in a mirror a goose-pimpled Wim Hof cultist will appear and drag you into an ice bath. What’s particularly annoying is that conflating vastly different forms of cold exposure seems common: taking cold showers is quite different to (and an order of magnitude less dangerous than) swimming in an ice-covered stream.

And there are pitfalls lurking outside social media. There’s plenty of “science” on this stuff that just… isn’t. One initially legit-looking literature review I found via Google Scholar breaks down the various applications of hydrotherapy (doing stuff to bodies with water, cold or otherwise) and comes up with a long but non-exhaustive list:

“[hydrotherapy is] used to improve immunity and for the management of pain, CHF, MI, chronic obstructive pulmonary diseases, asthma, PD, AS, RA, OAK, FMS, anorectal disorders, fatigue, anxiety, obesity, hypercholesterolemia, hyperthermia, labor, etc.”

But a second glance reveals that this is one of those cases where Lee Reid’s red flag index isn’t even necessary: both authors hail from the “SDM College of Naturopathy and Yogic Sciences.”

So is there any real science that showcases the benefits of cold showers?

Perhaps surprisingly, yes.

One study in the Netherlands published in the journal PLOS ONE found that cold shower-ers called in sick 29 percent less than a non-cold-showering control group: good news for our capitalist overlords, who may soon find a novel use for office fire-prevention systems. Then there’s a neuroscience study in the journal Biology which found, essentially, that people like cold showers: “We measured brain connectivity and self-reported emotional state before and after cold-water immersion. Our findings showed that participants felt more active, alert, attentive, proud, and inspired and less distressed and nervous after having a cold-water bath.” The study also found measurable differences in brain activity, which seem to corroborate that “cold water can make you feel good.”

It’s useful that the science also seems to show that cold showers are unlikely to be harmful to people living without known health issues (the Netherlands study, which was on a notably large cohort of 3018 participants, did not turn up any cold-shower-related adverse events) but I wonder, for the layperson, if the research is strictly necessary. To me, cold showers are a perfect example of what self-improvement could and should be; free, accessible, and possibly even fun. Sure, they’re advocated for by some questionable types, but who cares?2 If there’s no harm — and potentially some benefit — in an activity, there’s no reason to leave it as the exclusive bastion of griftfluencers and alt-right weirdos.

So can I point to any health benefits from of a year of cold showering? Absolutely not. I seem to be getting exactly the same number of colds and aches and pains as I always did. The closest I can come to a health benefit is that despite the every-time “what the fuck!” minor body horror of suddenly being pricked with ten thousand tiny icicles, I feel absolutely stoked for a good few minutes after getting out. That’s enough benefit for me, and I’m not the only one. I’m sending this out on the winter solstice, and all over the country people are braving some seriously chilly waters to take a shortest-day dip. And from the smiles I see on the socials, they really like it.

There might be a life lesson to be learned from cold showering, specifically that it is possible to learn to handle or even enjoy hard or uncomfortable things. This is what I’m choosing to take away from it, but as always I want to emphasise that we’re all different and that your personal mileage may vary. I don’t want to burden anyone with yet another fashionable self-improvement thing that may offer nothing more than a cloying, nagging feeling of obligation. Not meditating? Not journaling?  Not cold showering? Big deal. If it sounds interesting, give it a go. Keep going if it works for you, but please feel no guilt in abandoning it if it doesn’t — or even if you just need a break.

Thank you for reading The Cynic’s Guide To Self-Improvement. I am trying to guilt-trip you into sharing this post but I’m not very good at it. Please share anyway.

FAQs

These mostly aren’t real questions but I typed a question mark at the end of each one so you can imagine each one being said with an upward inflection?

I want to do cold showers?

Then do it.

I don’t want to do cold showers?

Then don’t do it.

I’m keen to try it but I’m worried I won’t like it?

Try it, and if you like it, you can keep doing it. If you don’t like it, you can stop.

So I really don’t have to do this?

No, you really don’t.

Are there any medical reasons to not do take cold showers?

With the obvious disclaimer that I am not a doctor or even anything vaguely approaching a doctor, I know of only a few conditions that might preclude cold showers. They are: epilepsy, migraines, and heart problems. If you have any of those, talk to a real doctor before subjecting your body to avoidable, optional cold shocks.

I’m worried I might enjoy taking cold showers?

You might. That’s a risk we bold self-improvers all take. But, importantly, you do not have to start taking Tik-Toks of yourself talking to the camera while chilling out in a cold shower. That is extremely optional.

I love this! Imma go break some ice and jump in a frozen stream!?

Yeah, nah. Taking a cold shower and plunging yourself in freezing water are quite different, in a similar way to how you might enjoy sitting by an open fire but you probably shouldn’t get in it. That was more joke than metaphor, to be honest. Unlike setting yourself on fire, icy bathing has a long cultural heritage and there are valid reasons to enjoy an freezing swim — but it’s best done in the absence of dangerous health conditions and in the company of friends who can haul you out of the water lest you start dying.

So. What do you reckon? Cold showers: yeah or nah? If you’ve got any low-key mascochistic self-improvement habits, I’m all ears.

Gidday Cynics,

I was planning to write a follow-up to the previous piece on routines, but it turns out I have the gift of prophecy. Here’s what I said last week:

The problem with a planned schedule or routine is that it will inevitably, often immediately, break. If you have anything like a normal life, something unforeseen will come up. In the likely event that whatever life throws at you is going to take more than thirty minutes, your precious schedule is fucked.

Being a pessimist has its advantages; mainly that you’re occasionally pleasantly surprised. But habitually expecting the worst also means that you come to hate being right, and boy, was I right about plans being immediately foiled. Just when I was getting all stoked with myself for sitting down with Louise and planning out a routine that would actually work around our family needs,1 I got hit with the one-two punch of munting my back and man-flu. As in, it wasn’t Covid, and probably wasn’t influenza, but a gnarly head cold that immobilized me for the best part of 24 hours. After that, my voice sounds like a bandsaw cutting through a wasps’ nest, I’ve been coughing up gobs of stuff that could plausibly be used to seed life on barren planets, and I’ve become exhausted through my efforts to not drive myself too hard.2

So I was stoked to have my guest piece run on Webworm, and even stoked-er to have the very first Cynic’s Guide guest piece land in my inbox. Let me introduce Lucy. She’s a regular here — if you’ve checked out the comments  you’ve probably seen her laying down some insight. She also happens to be one of my oldest friends. Lucy and I have been mates since we worked together on the Waikato University student magazine, in the Ancient Times. I say “worked” with heavy caveats — although we did do plenty of writing, we also spent a lot of time chortling over early I-can-has-cheezburger-tier memes and discussing Harry Potter fan theories.

Sigh. Remember when the young adult books you enjoyed had a modern heroine for an author instead of someone who’s gone so comprehensively to seed that they’re practically a Triffid? I remember. You don’t always know when you’re in the good times, or what dark turn is going to make them bad. And that’s probably a good segue to Lucy’s guest post, which is about finding your way through ennui.

Hi, fellow Cynics. My name’s Lucy. I’m 38, a parent, a professional development coach, and apparently experiencing late-30s ennui.

It’s strange, isn’t it, how you can have fairly in-depth knowledge of all kinds of things, but not identify it in yourself? I can tease this stuff out of people with GROW, DiSC, and various other development and self-awareness acronyms, and yet it was Josh who suggested it to me, on a sunny, wintry afternoon during one of those disjointed conversations you have when chasing your respective offspring round a playground.

And what do you do when you have a moan to a friend who happens to have a Substack about personal development? Apparently, you write a guest post.

A quick Google informs me that late-30s ennui is absolutely a thing, but (apparently) we don’t talk about it much. However, there are many, many articles about it aimed at the millennial generation —  those of us who can carry on whole conversations in Golden Age Simpsons quotes, and who worry that the makers of Bluey have our houses bugged.

Full credit to Buzzfeed for the very excellent term: Millennui.

So what’s it all about?

In your 20s, you’ve got unparalleled freedom (you just don’t know it yet). You can stay out late and still manage to work the next day, because your job’s probably entry-level and (if you’re lucky) not that hard, plus you’ve got boundless energy. It’s fine if you change your mind, because your 20s are for finding out what you don’t want from life anyway. And if you get to 26 and decide you’ve got it wrong all along, that’s okay, because you can go travelling, or (appetite for student loan permitting) go and do another degree and still be in your 20s when you finish.

Yet we don’t realise it at the time. We want our lives to be like Friends, with exciting love tangles and randomly falling into high-powered jobs, and lots of time to have coffee. And when we realise we don’t like the job we got our degree to do, we worry that we wasted all this professional development time, and we’re going to be, like, old when we finally have it worked out.

And then you reach your mid-30s. By then, you may well have kids and a mortgage and be wondering if you’re saving enough for retirement. Possibly you’ve had a big relationship break down. You don’t get to see your friends often enough. In hindsight, you realise that your 20s was a time of unstructured freedom and you probably wasted a lot of it worrying about what was to come, or flitting about trying out new things and never quite finding something that stuck.

You’re a different person, because that’s what time does to you. And because you’re more worldly, you discover all these new things that you want to try, or you know what you want, but now your spare time, energy, and money is inversely proportional to your levels of responsibility and tiredness.

And this late-30s is like no other generation has experienced.

If you were born sometime during the 1980s and your experience was anything like mine (though I know experiences vary wildly), your parent/s were quite possibly doing a job they studied for at university, and expected to remain there until retirement when they’d collect a nice pension for their trouble. It’s what their parents did. (My grandfather left school at 14 to work as a paperboy, and retired as the managing director of the company.) Perhaps they advised you to go to university, then the world would be your oyster too.

But you also probably graduated sometime around 2008-2009 into a global economic meltdown. House prices and rents exploded, inflation inflated, and however hard you worked there was the looming spectre of being one restructure away from redundancy. Global politics got rougher and more divisive, the vulnerable became more so, moth holes started to appear in the social fabric…and then Covid came along, and now, as we’re still trying to catch our breath, climate change has kicked off in earnest.

I am exhausted just thinking about the last 15 years.

So, it’s not that something’s wrong with you.

It’s not that you’ve spent your adult life making the wrong choices — generally, we make the best choices with the information that’s available to us at the time. The information that we had in our early 20s is not going to be current some 15 years later, and there’s a bunch of stuff that we don’t get to control. So let’s scrap that dwelling-on-past-decisions stuff and think about what we can do now.

Figure out our values

It sounds so self help-ey and trite, but actually getting to grips with what matters to you now is an important part of breaking out of ennui. Often, we feel ‘meh’ and dissatisfied because we haven’t re-evaluated what’s important to us, so we’re still working towards what a past version of ourselves would want.

It doesn’t have to signal a seismic change, like changing careers or moving country. But it might involve removing parts of your life that aren’t serving it now — including particular activities or relationships — and replacing them with things that do serve.

Break old habits

We all have habits that really don’t help us: mine is procrastination through doomscrolling. I’ve managed to curb that by getting rid of social media apps from my phone, deleting my Instagram account, leaving all the Facebook groups that I don’t need for work purposes, and physically putting the phone in another room. Reddit’s API fiasco and the subreddits going dark has helped too!

Instead, I’m gradually starting to replace the unhelpful habits with things like drawing, actual physical books, and good old-fashioned talking to my family.

Gradual habit change is the key. I know Atomic Habits is the talk of TikTok, but I preferred Tiny Habits. More practical and less lecture-y.

Unhook from it

I am a giant fan of Russ Harris’ The Happiness Trap and cannot recommend it enough to anyone who ever has that mean little voice in their head. I named mine Ursula.

I know Josh is going to read this book and go more in-depth on it later (aren’t you?), but I like using the very simple process outlined in it, called ACE.

• Acknowledge and name the thought or feeling
• Connect with your body
• Engage with your surroundings

The key with this is that you’re not trying to make those thoughts go away, or turn it round into a positive statement, or any of those things. You’re saying, “yup, I’m having a thought, I’m going to go and do this now.” Because thoughts and emotions come and go through the day — the trick is to notice them as dispassionately as possible and let them go. You can’t control them coming (I forbid you to think about a purple giraffe eating ice cream) but you do have some control over what you do with them.

And that’s the thing with ennui. It’s a common state for a lot of us, and apparently it can be expected at particular life stages and milestones. But maybe it’s also a sign that we’ve changed — because of course we have — and now it’s time to get to know ourselves better.

Josh here again. I really liked that piece. It’s funny how often we spend ages trapped in our own heads, spinning out over quite mild things that, reframed, are often very good things (like still being alive after nearly 40 years of it) and how these same things feel much clearer and lighter after a good yarn with a mate. Which raises the possibility that you can also get some of the same clarity by talking to yourself as if you were a friend, as Lucy’s done here. Results, as always, vary — but it can be helpful, and talking to yourself nicely instead of nastily almost certainly won’t hurt.

Lucy’s just put a new Substack together. She didn’t ask, but I wanted to promote it here. It’s about business and professional development coaching, which Lucy is living proof can be done in an ethical and non-grifty way.  You’re reading a self-improvement newsletter, so there’s a solid chance you’ll get something out of the excellently-named Happy Monday. If the first couple of posts are anything to go by it’s going to be very good.

Happy MondayA Substack about professional development, navigating crossroads in life and work, the work-life blend, and being happy that it’s Monday.By Lucy

I’m pretty sure everyone who reads this also subscribes to David Farrier’s Webworm, but on the off chance you don’t, my guest piece is there, awaiting your eager perusal.

Why Are So Many “Christians” Hellbent on Being Horrible?

Hi, There’s a question that’s been swirling around in my head for years now, and I think it started when Trump won in 2016. Here you had this man who was just objectively hideous, being voted in by hardcore Christians. It was weird. Since then, every additional fact we’ve learnt about Trump makes him seem

Webworm with David Farrier

Thanks for reading — I’d love to discuss Lucy’s post, your experiences of late-30s ennui3, and how you deal with it in the comments.

As always, this post is free. Please, feel guilty — then, assuage that guilt by sharing the post everywhere you can.

Every day, the first thing I do is wake up.

In my experience, that’s the best way to start a successful day, and I haven’t missed one yet.

It is, of course, 3 AM, the time all high-functioning people awake. The bright stars shine, brightly. Elves are abroad, softly singing songs of long-lost Valinor. Normies would never witness this.

I go for my first of several runs, bowels loosened by my pre-bedtime breakfast of Soylent, castor oil, and vitamin R. Then I go for a run using my feet, and legs.

As I complete the marathon, the sun is rising. I pause to do my morning breathwork, staring deep into the baleful yellow eye of Earth’s only known star. My eyes water gratefully.

From there it’s a quick trip home, deftly avoiding the odd tree or car that seems to rise up above the black void that has opened up in my vision — as a result of, I presume, mindfulness. Then it’s to work, at whatever vague thing I do. After thirty minutes of prompting ChatGPT to give instructions to the people who I have artfully coerced to do my job, the working day ends and I do my first hour of mindfulness. Then there’s lunch, a quick skip across the pond in a private jet to do lunch with the latest PM, then golf, followed by 19.2 minutes of extremely high quality time with one of my children, not sure which. I journal on the flight home — there’s nothing like flying for getting writing done — slug my soylent cocktail, and at long last slip into bed at 5:30 PM, utterly spent. My wife nudges me with a light in her eye, but I’m already snoring, satisfied in a way that mere intimacy with another human being can never provide.

In case you can’t tell, I was being sarcastic.

Barely.

Routines are a whole thing in self-improvement land. Search Tik-Tok for “morning routine” and prepare to be (if you are me) incredibly bored by beige weirdos earnestly explaining how and why they get up at 5 AM to journal before nipping to the gym, interposed with people dunking on people who get up at 5 AM and journal before nipping to the gym. Such is modern life. Everything is polarised; pick a side.

The routines of the famous make even richer reading. Here are the daily routine and affirmations of current jailbird and former Theranos CEO, Elizabeth Holmes, written down on (of course) a piece of stationery from a high-priced hotel.

Celebrity routines are even funnier. Because the job of most celebrities is to go to the gym in between acting gigs, their routines can be as wild as their imaginations can make them. From an interview with the Sunday Times, here is Orlando Bloom’s routine:

I’m a Capricorn, so I crave routine. Fortunately my partner is really into that too1.I chant for 20 minutes every day, religiously. I’ve had a Buddhist practice since I was 16, so that’s infiltrated my whole being. I’ll read a bit of Buddhism and then I’ll type it up and add it to my [Instagram] Stories. Other than that, I won’t look at my phone yet. I don’t want to be sucked into the black hole of social media.

I like to earn my breakfast so I’ll just have some green powders that I mix with brain octane oil, a collagen powder for my hair and nails, and some protein. It’s all quite LA, really. Then I’ll go for a hike while I listen to some Nirvana or Stone Temple Pilots.

By 9am it’s breakfast, which is usually porridge, a little hazelnut milk, cinnamon, vanilla paste, hazelnuts, goji berries, a vegan protein powder and a cup of PG Tips. I’m 90 per cent plant-based, so I’ll only eat a really good piece of red meat maybe once a month. I sometimes look at a cow and think, that’s the most beautiful thing ever.

There’s a doctoral thesis in there. I find “brain octane oil” especially intriguing, but so are beautiful cows and an entire food pyramid masquerading as “porridge.” Let’s not get too hung up on Orlando’s relatively sane routine, though, when we could be looking at Mark Wahlberg’s, which he posted to his own Instagram.

–   2:30 a.m. — Wake up

–   2:45 a.m. — Prayer time

–   3:15 a.m. — Breakfast

–   3:40-5:15 a.m. — Workout

–   5:30 a.m. — Post-workout meal

–   6 a.m. — Shower

–   7:30 a.m. — Golf

–   8 a.m. — Snack

–   9:30 a.m. — Cryo chamber recovery

–   10:30 a.m. — Snack

–   11 a.m. — Family time, meetings, and work calls

–   1 p.m. — Lunch

–   2 p.m. — Meetings and work calls

–   3 p.m. — Pick up kids from school

–   3:30 p.m. — Snack

–   4 p.m. — Second workout

–   5 p.m. — Shower

–   5:30 p.m. — Dinner and family time

–   7:30 p.m. — Bedtime

This came out a while ago so better sleuths than me have covered it, including the 2:30 AM wake-up, the venality of mingling “family time,” with “meetings and work calls,” the improbable 30 minute golf game, and the 1.5 hour snack2, followed by another hour spent in a “cryo recovery chamber,” whatever that is, to deal with whatever the snack was. An elephant, I assume.

This has been the stuff of mockery for a long while. In the Ancient Times circa 2016, some daily routines — from routine dudebros, not celebrities — went viral. Because the Internet is actually not the bastion of permanence we all thought it was but an ephemeral void populated by ghosts, I can’t find it anywhere. From memory, it was stuff like “I wake up to the red light alarm I had installed to deal with my SAD and go stare at the sun3 for twenty minutes, before meditating and making myself a kale shake.” At the time, it received plenty of mockery on Twitter, whose users love a new Main Character.

And I feel that is just a bit unfair.

The trick is that writing anything down in a deliberate, ordered, meticulous format automatically makes whatever you’re doing seem psychotic, even if it’s painfully ordinary.  For example, here’s how my day actually tends to go.

I wake up and listen to Leo chatter to himself in his bed. Eventually I hop up, get him out of bed, change him straight away if I smell anything suspicious, stumble to the kitchen, put the kettle on, sit Leo down and give him whatever he’s getting for breakfast. Then I’ll grab my phone and read whatever’s at hand – emails, messages I got during the night, the usual social media time-suck. Often enough I’ll follow that by grabbing my laptop and tap away at work stuff (or, too often, hop down unhelpful time-wasting rabbit holes like checking my various inboxes over and over and over) in my pyjamas while I slurp at a coffee. Some days, I’ll fit in a run or a bodyweight workout. At some stage I will have a shower, followed by making the bed, and then the day is a miscellaneous hodgepodge of work, meetings, bouncing off unhelpful websites and time-sinks, responding to a sporadic but constant patter of notifications, making food, dad tasks, eating food, putting Leo to bed, staring at a big screen while taking breaks to stare at a smaller screen, sometimes writing something like this newsletter, then bed.

Fairly normal for a dad who works from home and thumps a keyboard for a living, I assume. But watch what happens when I write out the same thing, add some extremely hypothetical timestamps, plus a bit of of flowery description and self-help psychobabble.

• 7 AM: I awake, watching the sun slip through the gap in the curtains and feeling my heart swell with love as my son laughs himself awake. I leap out of bed, stride purposefully into his room and help him begin his day.

• 7:15 AM: I begin my morning routine in the kitchen, relishing the aroma of coffee brewing. I take my coffee outside, and drink in the cool morning air and bright sun. I also drink the coffee.

• 7:30 AM: I prepare my son a healthy breakfast of oats and milk, with a touch of cinnamon and honey. Sometimes I add a little fruit — perhaps peach, or kumquat.4

• 8:00 AM: I begin my working day, responding to emails and requests from clients and colleagues.

• 8:30 AM: I drop my son at preschool, watching him skip happily away and chatter with his friends. I am truly #blessed.

I’ll stop there or it will go on for another thousand or so intolerable words. I was starting to feel queasy so I can’t imagine how you were doing.

The reason I bring this up is because we all have routines, whether we know it or not. I don’t have a set bedtime or an alarm, but since I started wearing a smart watch I’ve been amazed by how consistently I go to sleep and wake up very similar times. Without planning or meaning to, I do nearly the exact same things every morning, with slight differences.

My realisation is that if I nudge just a little bit more purpose or planning into things I already do I could get quite a lot more done with very little additional effort. To take one example: what if — once I was on my computer — I didn’t flick between social media, work emails, and random internet bright lights and loud noises, instead concentrating on just working, or just socializing, or just scrolling? Or how about if I cleaned the kitchen while my son eats his oats (with just a soupçon of cinnamon) instead of zoning out at my laptop? Going a little further — what if I bundled up my heavy day-job workload into a specific time-bracket, thereby carving out time for my elusive alleged hobby, actually fucking painting?

Doing these fundamentally sensible things has occurred to me many times in the past, and I’ve even given it a go a few times, but I’ve never stuck the landing. I think the reason I have struggled with intentional routines — as opposed to the unintentional ones I follow effortlessly — is, I think, twofold: I haven’t wanted to buy into the psychotic cult-like thinking of extreme routine-followers, and because I feel all plans are doomed to fail. The problem with a planned schedule or routine is that it will inevitably, often immediately, break. If you have anything like a normal life, something unforeseen will come up. In the likely event that whatever life throws at you is going to take more than thirty minutes, your precious schedule is fucked. And then, instead of feeling joy from having answered work emails or stared at the sun for the requisite twenty minutes, you’re staring down the black hole of an early-morning failure.

But perhaps the fact that celebrity routines are stuffed with obvious lies should be a clue: a perfect routine simply isn’t possible. So what needs to change is the expectation of perfection. Of course it’s not always going to work. It just needs to mostly work. And you don’t need to get up at 2:30 AM with the elves.

So — how about you? Let me know if you’ve had any success planning routines, or sticking to them, or if you’ve had more luck throwing yourself before the whims of chaos. I reckon both are valid, but if your plan involves shutting yourself in a freezer for an hour every day, maybe see a doctor first.

Thank you for reading The Cynic’s Guide To Self-Improvement. If you’ve found this post helpful for some reason, share it, you coward.

Gidday [CYNIC NAME HERE],

We hope you’re enjoying all the cynicism and self-improvement the Cynic’s Guide to Self-Improvement has to offer. We’re updating our our prices to bring you more great entertainment.

This update will allow us to deliver even more value for your membership like new logos I made using Canva, stories about lifting weights, not doing pull-ups, or just telling tales that simply make your day a little more cynical.

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The catch

I hope you enjoyed my best parody of a price rise email. The catch is that I really am putting prices up, to $10 a month, but don’t worry. I’m only doing it so I can bring prices down.

On the face of it, this makes even less sense than Netflix telling you it’s putting prices up so it can cancel yet another critically-acclaimed or audience-beloved show for tax  reasons, so let me explain.

I’ve wanted to move the Cynic’s Guide to a pay-what-you-want model for a while now. People have told me they’d like to pay for my stuff, but that $8 USD a month is a lot in these financially-cursed times, and I agree. Substack doesn’t actually offer pay-what-you-want functionality yet, but I’ve figured out how to emulate it with some carefully-arranged perpetual percentage discounts. That’s why the price has gone up to 10 bucks — it’s a lot easier to fiddle with percentages when you’re working in tens. And now that I’m done fiddling, you have quite a few more options when it comes to supporting the Cynic’s Guide:

If you already pay for my work, and you’re happy paying $10 a month, carry on! It’s very much appreciated.

If you already pay for my work, but you’d like to pay less than $10 a month, this allows you to continue to support the newsletter at a rate that’s comfortable for you. Simply cancel your existing subscription (oof) and pick a new price from the links below (yay.)

If you don’t yet pay for my work because it’s a bit pricey, but you’d like to, the new perpetual discounts will allow you to contribute at any level you’d like.

If you’d like to keep paying me (a person with a day job) but you’d rather the lion’s share of your limited subscription budget went to someone who needs it more (because they make their whole living from Substack,) please, make it happen.

If you don’t yet pay for my work and you don’t want to, that’s fine. Carry on. The plan is still for the Cynic’s Guide to remain free. Please, repay me for the free content by sharing it everywhere you possibly can.

Here are the new pricing tiers. Have fun!

Hopefully these work. If something looks broken, let me know.

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• Pay $10 a month / $100 a year: Uh, just find the link to my current subscription page. Ah, here it is:

In self-improvement news, I did a workout today. Managed a few sets of 5 pullups. There you go. That’s what you came for, right?

Thanks again for reading. All going well, there’ll be an actual, non-price-related update later this week.

Gidday Cynics,

You’ll be pleased to know I have been extremely productive in nearly every facet of my life except writing this newsletter.

As far as writing goes, I’ve been busy. On top of a fairly intense day-job writing workload, I’ve smashed out quite a few thousand words for various outlets. I wrote an in-depth video game explainer aimed at non-gamer parents for the excellent Emily Writes. If you haven’t already read it, you might find it helpfully self-improvement-adjacent. Sample:

While video games are not bad for your brain, they are mentally taxing and time-consuming by design. They can foster compulsive behaviours that can look a lot like addiction in both children and adults. It’s very easy for kids — and me! —  to stay up late playing games, get very little sleep, and be a wreck the next day. What’s more, kids (particularly neurodivergent kids) can find competitive games difficult, especially if they feel that another team or the game itself is being “unfair.” This can lead to meltdowns; in gamer-speak, it’s called “tilted.” Adults are not immune. My language (not on mic!) during nighttime Halo sessions could melt steel beams. It is something I am trying actively to fix, as it’s not a habit I want to pass on to my kids.

That piece prompted a few of Emily’s subscribers to come here. If that’s you, then welcome! I hope you enjoy whatever this is.

I also wrote a guest sermon piece for David Farrier’s Webworm which may or may not appear in the near-to-distant future. Sneak peak:1

Bible translations vary a lot, but there is no version of the story where the Samaritan puts the injured man in a chokehold and kills him.

Plenty of people have made this exact observation, not least the Reverend Al Sharpton, who delivered the eulogy at Jordan Neely’s funeral. But I’m interested in what it says about the many people on the right-wing of United States politics — including, perhaps, up to 25 percent of the population — who call themselves Christians.

I don’t think they’re Christians at all. I think they’re something else.

Something terrible.

Sinister! In lighter news, the cult of orthodox economics has long been the funniest “science,” and the economic establishment has just now outdone themselves by begging the public to stop taking their predictions in any way seriously.  Yes, really. I wrote about this for my occasional media/politics blog, The Bad Newsletter:

Without a finely-honed economic sense of humour like mine you might have missed the joke. Let me explain while trying not to laugh too hard because I still can’t believe they said the quiet part quite so loud: because their predictions keep turning out to be wrong, economists are asking us to take a radically different view of the word “prediction.” Rather than assessing an economic prediction’s success using the conventional calibration — whether or not it happens — we are asked to reflect on whether the prediction tells us anything about the present.

Now that we’ve got all those accomplishments out of the way, let us get down to the more usual business of feeling shitty about our lack of self-improvement. I’ll start by asking: does anyone else do this thing?

Running away from tasks, literally

Imagine I’m beginning something new — hypothetically, let’s say “today’s Cynic’s Guide newsletter.”  I’ll feel a charge of excitement, but instead of opening a document and writing something, I’ll spontaneously stand up and stride briskly away. This isn’t a conscious thing: I’ll often be a considerable distance from my desk before I realize what’s happened. Some mute bit of my subconscious hasn’t liked my sudden urge to get things done, has seized the controls, and steered me away.

This happens in other ways, that are less noticeable as physically running away from my work. The same process happens in miniature at my computer multiple times a day. In fact, it happened a few seconds ago, which is why I bring it up. I was stuck on a sentence and instead of puzzling it out I flicked my forefinger over my laptop’s touchpad and dug into my Gmail tab. Why? There was nothing conscious about it; I’d checked my email only a few minutes earlier (and how often I check it has no bearing at all on how often I reply to things.) A momentary lull in executive function and off I go. At its worst, this is like being a passenger in your own brain, seeing through the eye-holes of a dumb meat golem with the wrong set of instructions slipped into its skull, briskly traveling away from its work and up the stairs to do yet another line of the chocolate that’s meant to be for muffins.

I’ve been trying to think through why I might behave this way, and I’m approaching something plausible: I tend to work in all-or-nothing binge slogs. They start with frantic, productive clattering and ending with me slack-jawed, prodding dumbly at the keyboard trying to remember what words and letters are. This is exhausting and it’s probably what my helpful/unhelpful subconscious is trying to get me away from.

Now I’ve noticed this tendency, I’m pleased to have picked up a new self-help book that I might even finish reading. This one rejoices in the unwieldly title of How To Take Smart Notes: One Simple Technique To Boost Learning, Writing, and Thinking. It is by a bloke called Sönke Ahrens and is translated from German, which means its title is probably expressible in one lengthy word, perhaps something like Schmartnötenteknikallerninundwrittenschen. So far, it’s excellent, because it does something no other book I’ve ever read does: explains how to take notes in a way that works for my perpetually scattered attention.  Here is one of my notes: you can decide how smart it is.

As it turns out, writing down every ridiculous thought circling around in my head — projects I might do, ideas I have, topics for articles, everything else — is incredibly freeing. It pins thoughts down and stops them taking up space. I’ve always struggled with systems, like project planners, that try to get you to write your ideas or todos down in a linear way: I’m finding it much easier to just write all the thoughts down and find the connections between them later. I like the idea of doing more tinkering, and less binge-writing.

I’ll write a piece on the book once I get through it. On that note, here are some scattered thoughts I’ve been able to shape into something sensical now I’ve yanked them out of the formless ether of my brain:

On schedules and routines

Those might be the two most boring words in the English language and they’re about to become a major part of my vocabulary. After last weeks’ even-more-obvious-than usual revelation that I will not become swole by writing about how I might one day become swole (in between bouts of video games) I am starting an exercise routine that involves picking up heavy things and putting them down again. I’m also returning to scheduled posts. I’m thinking Wednesday mornings NZ time, but if you have strong opinions on when you’d like to get this thing, let me know in the comments. Here’s what you can expect in the upcoming weeks:

• A thing on Smart Notes
• A thing about routines, habits, and self-help’s obsession with bed-making
• A thing on Getting Things Done (the book, not the tantalisingly abstract concept)
• Some more stuff on sleep and sleep hacking, which I’ve been working on for ages

Now, to brighten or possibly darken the end of your week, here is some of the weirder self-improvement stuff I’ve seen in recent online travels.

Long bow of the week:

In a field full of grand, sweeping, often evidence-free conclusions, this is one of the grander and more sweeping ones I’ve seen. But wait! There’s more:

Clickbait has a lot to answer for, but it did inspire me to experiment with today’s email title to see what happens. In an effort to make writers feel terrible about themselves (evidently not realising this happens to most writers anyway,) Substack  introduced a new dashboard that shoves the most recent stats for your newsletter right under your nose. I will be disappointed, but unsurprised, if the open rate for this one is higher than normal.

Possibly unintentionally funny self-help book title of the week:

“It’s OK! I can stop overthinking! All I need to do is recall one of the 23 Techniques to Relieve Stress, Stop Negative Spirals, Declutter Your Mind, and aaaaaaaaargh!”

Brutally ironic Reddit post of the week:

I subscribe to several self-help subreddits, mainly to see what people are talking about in the space. I’m starting to wonder if that was a mistake.

Graphic design is my passion

I made a logo and wordmark for this newsletter for some reason. There are few things I hate more than reading some exhaustive, design-wank-laden account of why so-and-so brand or such-and-such publication picked a particular font or line weight or something; anything that goes beyond “This is what our CEO eventually said yes to” is an overwrought lie. I’ll leave it to you to discuss why I picked this combination of heiroglyphics and words, should you be so inclined.

Any designers reading this who are triggered by my treatment of kerning or whatever are welcome to get in touch and pitch how they’d make it better.

That’s all for this week. As always, I’d love to have a yarn in the comments. How do you take notes (smart or otherwise), navigate through endless clickbait, avoid thinking too much about overthinking, or make logos for your newsletters? Take it away.

Gidday Cynics,

Important news: There is a new video game out called The Legend of Zelda: Tears of the Kingdom, it is the best video game I’ve played in years, possibly ever, and it is ruining my life.

In Tears of the Kingdom, you play as a lad called Link who dives out of the sky to save a princess1 after acquiring incredible powers that allow you to create great and terrible machines and attach mushrooms to your sword and (most importantly) swim through ceilings. This makes much more sense when you play it.2

In real life, I play as a very-late-30s man with a demanding day job, a young child, a mortgage to pay, and an inexplicable newsletter about my self-help obsession. I have no incredible powers, getting a mushroom stuck to my chopping knife has no enjoyable gameplay implications, and all my attempts to swim through ceilings have ended in failure.

In this, I am far from alone. I am the target market. Nintendo knows this, and cruelly made their Tears of the Kingdom ad about specifically me.3

The combination of a demanding day job and a demanding game painted a picture that — from a very slight distance — looks uncomfortably like a cocaine addict in the midst of a relapse. After a hard day’s laptop-screen-jockeying (in between, of course, scrolling sessions on my little screen) I would curl up on the couch to binge-play the latest adventure of Link on the big screen (which is powered by a medium-sized, portable screen).

Other commitments, like fitness, or this newsletter, or my great nemesis The Lawns fell by the wayside.

Reddit is full of people like me. It understands.

I felt guilty. I dealt with this the only way I know how, by over-committing. My clever friends with excellent Substack newsletters were obvious targets. I have a guest article due for Webworm, because I pitched a guest article for Webworm. Meanwhile, Emily Writes about how she bought her children a “Game Boy thing” (a PlayStation 4.) She’s one of many parents who are, sensibly, flummoxed by gaming and its weird allure for children — and adults.  “How would you like a guest article on this?” I texted.

She would, it turns out. Shit. What to do? Better play some more Zelda.

Nostalgia is a drug. You can’t go home again, but that won’t stop you trying. And for as long as I can remember, videogames have been a home. My formative experience with the Legend of Zelda is at a friend’s house, in 1999, with the groundbreaking 3D adventure game Ocarina of Time. We’re on the Water Temple; the most difficult of this unforgiving game’s dungeons. After a maze of watery corridors, we open a door, and are greeted with a vista: an endless plain, covered in shallow water, the horizon shrouded in mist. In front of us is a leafless sapling — like That Wanaka Tree, but before it was even a seed.

It stopped us cold. Two sneering teenage kids, rendered speechless.

My mate was the first to get his breath back.

“That is art,” he said.

Over the next few years, my brothers and I would play through Ocarina of Time and its sequels together. I missed them terribly when I went to university, and I needed to escape the baleful gaze of my horrible Christian Vegan flatmates, so I bought myself a GameCube and played through The Legend of Zelda: Wind Waker. I managed to acquire a bad flu at the same time, so my memories of the game involve rivers of snot staunched by handkerchiefs that might as well have been sandpaper. I played it on a 12 inch CRT television, wrapped in blankets and pajamase and drinking cup after cup of the only thing I can stomach: herbal licorice tea. To this day, a sip of licorice tea will yank me back in time to a place that doesn’t exist: The Wind Waker’s gorgeous cartoon-style climate-changed world.

And why wouldn’t we play games? Humans are innately game-playing creatures; play is largely how we learn, and video games shape and mold that intrinsic drive into something extraordinarily powerful. As that Tears of the Kingdom advertisement cleverly shows, videogames give you something that modern life doesn’t: a sense of agency. In a game, every decision you make seems to matter, even if you’re following a pre-ordained narrative. Life will happily tick on with or without you, and the unjust machines of the world will not be unmade by your furious online raging, but in a videogame only you can save the world. People want to matter. Games let them.

Back in the present, Tears of the Kingdom has a mechanic where you can rewind pretty much any moving object through time. Look out! Enemies have set an enormous spiked boulder rolling at you, Indiana Jones style. Not a problem! Rewind it through time and use it to crush your enemies, see them driven before you, and hear the lamentation of the Bokoblins.

What would I do if I could rewind all my misspent time? The bingeing tendency isn’t a new thing. I have always been like this. Games are a dopamine hook through the jaw, and I struggle to ignore the bait. I’m going to bed late and waking up tired. Worse than tired; fatigued. I’m spending hours and hours at my keyboard smashing out content for the new website and I just need a break but the break I crave most is the total release from care that only Class A substances and an infuriatingly good video game can provide. The mute frenemies in my subconscious give me their burnout warnings. A brain-buzz here; a muscle twitch there. Gravity seems stronger than normal.

A trip to the big city provides a few hours to catch up on my non-work writing.  Instead of doing that, I plummet into the hotel bed and into a stupor. When I wake, I start writing this.

What I’ve woken up to is less an epiphany and more delayed-onset common sense. So far, my self-improvement experiment has been additive. I’ve been increasing the number of new balls to juggle, new plates to spin, all while running out of the spoons I mix metaphors with.

It’s not sustainable. For this experiment to add up to anything, other things will have to be subtracted.

What to start with?

I’ve got Lee Reid staying for a few days and I’d intended to have a sit-down discussion with him about the neurological basis of videogame’s allure, but we only got as far as agreeing that a day playing videogames is pretty much the same (in brain terms) as a day’s hard work before fiddling with Tears of the Kingdom’s hilarious build mechanic until 11 at night.

Awake this morning, bleary-eyed, making a beeline for the kettle to make coffee, thinking: I really have to get a newsletter out, it’s been well over a week. And: it’s time I started taking this self-improvement jag more seriously. Writing newsletters at it won’t increase the number of pullups I can do.

Something has to give, or all the ambitions and ideas I have will wither and die on the vine. But what should I subtract? I just can’t think of what to leave behind.

It really is such a good game, you guys.

Gidday Cynics,

We’re a few months in to this project now and I’ve noticed something interesting: the most engaged subscribers here aren’t men.

There’s nothing wrong with this. But it’s definitely not what I expected. I figured a newsletter that tackles big themes like “increased productivity” and “how many pull-ups I can do” would attract mostly dudes. It makes me interested to see how people receive this week’s topic — something that’s been bugging me for ages now.

Fellas, are you OK?

Please note: the following contains discussion of self-harm and suicide.

In many ways this question is already answered. Men, collectively, are not OK. It’s been a while since I browsed the statistics, so I’ve been able to react with fresh horror: By a staggering proportion, men commit most crime, including the worst crimes such as violent sexual assaults and murder. Here are the New Zealand police proceedings demographic data, neatly stripped of their unfathomable human tragedy and rendered into graphs:

Men also kill themselves at an awful rate: in New Zealand, the suicide rate for men is around four times that of women — a statistic that seems to hold true for other countries. I know there are caveats to consider here, but the sheer discrepancy is shocking.

Because it’s well-known that men are not OK, and because the causes and circumstances of this malaise are complex, men’s wellness has long been easy fodder for grifters. The current cure, touted by a seemingly endless parade of (usually) male griftfluencers, is that men have become soft and simply need to, uh, man up.

As far as science can tell, this isn’t true. The shittier traits associated with masculinity — often called “toxic masculinity” — aren’t good for men’s mental health, according to a comprehensive meta-analysis published in 2016. As the Smithsonian Magazine reports:

“Sexism isn’t just a social injustice,” says Y. Joel Wong, a psychologist at Indiana University Bloomington and the study’s lead author. “It may even be potentially problematic for mental health”—men’s mental health, that is.

But facts have never got in the way of this terrible story, and the people telling it are making out like bandits.

Tucker Carlson is famous for a lot of things, most recently for being sacked by Fox News. But before that, there was… whatever this is:

Tucker’s special The End of Men, feat. testicle tanning, men milking cows, shirtless dudes wrasslin’ each other, and all sorts of other weird shit is classic Fox infotainment; baiting both concerned conservatives and easily-enraged liberals with equal aplomb. As usual, there’s a core of truth to this bullshit pearl; testosterone levels in men are dropping over time, at a population level, and no-one knows exactly why.1 There are also plenty of people for whom careful monitoring of testosterone is part of necessary health or gender-affirming care. My intention is not to have a go at them, but to point out that the solutions articulated by right-wing media personalities and manosphere grifluencers are intended to stoke anxiety in people whose testosterone is probably perfectly fine.2 But wait, there’s more. Parker Molloy, author of the excellent Substack newsletter This Present Age, has an explainer at Rolling Stone:

As ridiculous and easily mocked as these videos are, they represent an ascendant ideology on the right and an extension of Carlson’s long-standing belief that there is a war on masculinity that threatens to destroy society itself. This theme of social collapse is a mainstay of Carlson’s Fox News show, with immigration, LGBTQ rights, and the battles against racism and sexism are all framed as threats that must be beaten back to maintain Carlson’s preferred patriarchal social order. In short, the video’s not actually about the benefits of sunshine on one’s scrotum at all.

More recently, in February of 2023, Vogue magazine put singer Rhianna on the cover, together with her husband A$AP Rocky and nine-month-old son.

Naturally, completely normal men immediately drew diagrams all over it.

This “green line” stuff, which was briefly the subject of a Tik-Tok trend too painful to discuss at length (but which is easily Googleable if you want to induce a headache) was the creation of an incel-adjacent manosphere Twitter guy with 175,000 followers. Clicking on a few links or suggested follows — thank you, socially destructive algorithms —  quickly turns into a bottomless shitmine. Here’s just one of the nuggets from near the top that shows exactly where these people’s minds are at:

And here’s what gets me about this stuff, all these keyboard worriers publicly bemoaning the state of men: it’s not very manly, is it?

Obviously, I don’t think caring about the state of the world makes you unmanly or in any other way unworthy. If I did, I’d have to stop writing. But this overwhelming preoccupation with a lack of masculinity, particularly among the Profoundly Online Dudes that are the vanguard of our endless cultural wars, just seems to me to be kind of weak. Think of the state of the discourse around “alphas” and “betas,” which started as a misunderstanding of how wolves work3 and has since been carefully nurtured by incels and other manosphere denizens. And as long as we’re appealing to the animal kingdom for examples of how people should behave, which these people always do, let’s use it to dismiss the notion that strength and nurturing fatherhood are mutually exclusive. Silverback gorillas are quite capable of lazily separating a human’s arms from its body but they play with and cuddle their babies all the time.4

The content peddled by these belligerent yet fretful male influencers is, at best, total pseudoscience, but the fact remains but a sizeable proportion of the male population seems to both care about this stuff and take it seriously. To which I say: why? If alphas and betas existed (they don’t) the only people who’d devote any time to worrying about being alpha would be betas. And, weirdly, that’s exactly what a lot of these guys do.

I’ll change the tone of my address a bit here: if you, or anyone you know, is caught up in this stuff I think there’s a relatively easy out — or, if you want to put it that way, a shortcut to alpha-dom.

Stop caring about it.

Seriously. Stop giving a shit about whether you’re manly enough, because fretting about being manly is not manly. By way of proof, I’ve got exactly what every griftfluencer telling you to care about the state of your gonads so they can sell you powders or red-light machines has: an appeal to ancient wisdom. Tell me, have you heard of… the Spartans?

Well, they were an ancient society of Greek warriors and blah blah blah. You’ve all seen or heard of 300 and the associated memes and learning opportunities. Did you know that there weren’t just 300 Spartans at Thermopylae there were actually thousands of Greeks ugh, I’ll spare you the rest. But there’s one thing that’s well worth remembering about the Spartans, and is easily the thing I find most endearing about them: they were laconic.

Spartan children, for whom education was compulsory, were taught from an early age to be laconic in their speech. Essentially, it’s being concise to excess.5 This example is often given:

Persian commander: “Our arrows will blot out the sun!”

Spartan: “Then we will fight in the shade.”

According to a wildly funny Wikipedia entry, this might actually have happened. It certainly seems to have been in keeping with the sort of thing Spartans actually said.6

Back to the point: while Spartans obviously cared very much about being masculine, I can’t imagine that these bloke’s blokes would have been even mildly interested in drawing diagrams explaining how a rich and famous man who performed the actions necessary to produce a child with someone as infamously hot as Rhianna is actually a cuckold. If it’s masculinity you’re looking to cultivate, then there are plenty of methods I’d argue are non-toxic, more fun, more accessible, and much better for you than worrying about it. Here is a short list, pulled entirely from the top of my head:

• Exercise (if your arms work, pullups are free and satisfyingly difficult yet easy to improve at)
• Learning a manly art of some kind. Go find a woodworking class, or learn to paint. Build a table or something.
• Channel the masculine urge to protect and serve into learning about and dealing with actual problems, like climate change, instead of pretend ones like how much sun your balls do or don’t get
• Make a good cup of tea (there’s an art to it)
• Learn an instrument: you can get an OK second-hand guitar for $50 and tablature can be found for free online
• Get in the sea. Seriously, ocean swimming is good for your soul
• Get a bunch of rocks or other small objects and throw them into a bucket; my flatmate and I got hours of entertainment from doing this when I was at University and a literal bucket of rocks is leagues smarter than Andrew Tate
• Touch grass. Just go for a goddamn walk

It’s not that I think any of the above should be the exclusive province of men; it’s just that I think there are lots of useful and manly things that dudes can do on the cheap without needing to spend their time worrying about how manly they are. By all means, go to the gym. Shoot arrows at targets. Acquire a collection of flannel shirts. Grow a beard. Do other forms of male-gender-affirming self-care. Just get off the goddamn internet for a bit and stop worrying about whether men are leaning correctly or whether a given celebrity is a simp or the state of other blokes’ nuts. Because, if that’s something you’re giving undue attention to, you’re being grifted. Here’s Molloy again:

By presenting men insecure about their masculinity with an enemy in need of domination, fascist-friendly media personalities can pull their audience to the right. This is what’s currently happening with the moral panic about “grooming” playing out across right-wing media and being implemented as policy by right-wing politicians. A recent video of the crowd at a Trump rally chanting “Save our kids“ shows just how successful this type of messaging continues to be, consequences be damned. The goal is to not only halt social progress, but to reverse it by painting pro-equality messages as part of nefarious schemes to undermine Western civilization.

If you’re a guy, and you’ve been caught up in anything like what I’ve described — please, take a step back, and think about how weird it all is. Whatever positive masculinity is, all that shit is its opposite. The world needs good men. Go be one.

I’m about to take my own advice and go for a walk, but to keep you on top of my own self-improvement experiment, I managed to do a colossal eight consecutive pull-ups the other day, and there’s a new painting did. Even better, this one has a video to go with it. Go on, lick and subscrub. I’ll see you in the comments!

@tworuruCan I fix this Pikango painting in Breath of the Wild? #botw #breathofthewild #legendofzelda #totk #art #fanart #artistsoftiktok #gaming #fyp

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Gidday Cynics,

It has been a Week. The day job Matrix has me, and while this is definitely cause for celebration — having a job is an increasingly rare privilege these days, plus I actually like what I’m doing and suspect I may be borderline good at it — it has left scant time for newsletters.

So I’m going to do something I’ve wanted to do for a while, and throw over to you, the readers. Although Cynic’s Guide is still just a baby in the newsletter lifecycle, I’m thrilled to have already acquired a brilliant and engaged commenter community. Imagine the comments on typical news website Facebook page, then imagine the opposite. That’s you. Be proud!

So for the rest of this newsletter I’m going to take some of the best reader feedback from the Webworm that kicked off this whole boondoggle as well as the newsletters that I’ve put out since, and give some more in-depth responses.

Let’s start with Michele, one of many readers who offered solid feedback and insight on that first Webworm article.

Michele says:

Yes indeed ‘the fields are ripe unto harvest’ for the opportunistic grifters (who are simply me or you with the volume turned WAY up) to ply their message of hope and validate our distrust of anything we are not.

This is extremely true. A lot of people in the self-improvement space really are just randoms with unwarranted confidence: living embodiments of the Dunning-Kruger effect. Whether or not they deserve the term “grifters” is debatable. I’m pretty sure some are intentionally grifting, but is it worse if they’re amplifying and manipulating people’s dissatisfaction unintentionally?

Emily says:

I’ve always felt like churches, cults, mlm’s, and the self help industry all recruit in a similar fashion. They look for an emotional vulnerability they can lean on, hit it as hard as they can, and then offer you both a solution and a community. The thought of a solution to your problems draws you in, and then the community traps you. It’s hard to pull yourself away from something when it feels like your whole life is wrapped up in it.

Yup. It’s all part of a continuum. I’m pretty sure a lot of my own distrust of cultish self-improvement communities comes from bad religious experiences. Even exercise classes tick that box for me, and for a long time I disliked participating in improv warm-up exercises. Too culty!

Bentia says:

It’s wrong to mock those who are trying to improve themselves but it’s well and good to truly interrogate those who are selling it to us because they are so often, deeply sick themselves… I try to stay away from self improvement for my own sanity since I don’t deal well with failure at all (I don’t even do New Year’s resolutions) I truly believe that the only safe form of self improvement involves therapy with a licensed professional and possibly an actual psychiatrist. There are too many scams out there and too many unwell people who are trying to get better by selling you something that hasn’t even worked for them.

Yes! A lot of people selling self-improvement are deeply fucked up. This speaks to a big part of what I’m trying to do — I want to find self-improvement stuff that isn’t being hawked by people who are themselves doing it to feel less broken, and that’s relatively safe to try doing yourself. Here, like before, there’s a continuum, and people are going to have to find their own comfort. Technically, going for a run is unsafe — you could have a heart attack, or get hit by a car, or be savaged by two wolves1 who aren’t inside you — but it’s rewarding and long-term it’s probably going to be quite good for you.

Karen says:

I have been involved in some of the wellness world a bit and here is how it sometimes goes:

1. You’re very special

2. You’re also fucked

3. Only I can fix you. Give me your money

I have read too many self-help books with that exact plot. It’s too predictable. They need to mix it up a bit.

A. Michelle says:

most of self-improvement pop culture is a grift. I think that monetizing the grift has shifted from books to influencers, the latter actually being *worse* because anyone who likes taking selfies and pointing at invisible pop-up text boxes can do it. It doesn’t need to be accepted by a publisher or go through an editor.

Fucking hell. This is too real and it makes me feel old. I can’t be doing with TikTok, I just can’t. It stresses me out. The app got wind of the fact I’m interested in self-improvement so it keeps trying to hook me on tradwife influencers peddling Christo-fascism and weird Jordan Peterson acolytes trying to sell me the benefits of testicle-tanning and (judging from the adult zits and haunted eyes) steroid use. I just about manage to put my art on YouTube but doing dances while pointing at the blank space where a text box could be while that horrible obnoxiously cheerful robot voice reads out the caption… fuck that all the way to hell. I’ll stick with my text-heavy newsletter like a common ageing millenial troglodyte, thank you very much. Humbug!

Denis says:

Self-improvement was considered to be a vital part of being “successful” in MLM ! We were forcefully encouraged to BUY, read and study books by Zig Ziglar, Eckhart Tolle, Tony Robbins, Dale Carnegie, Robert Kiyosaki (net worth $100 million) – in fact you couldn’t “go core” until you’d bought these books and introduced a certain number of people to the business in one year! Basically “going core” meant you were sucked in by the carrot offered to you – work hard at recruiting and selling for one year with the promise of an afternoon on the Amway super yacht rubbing shoulders with one or two “Diamonds” in the business!

When I was a kid I read Robert Kiyosaki’s Rich Dad, Poor Dad and found it exciting (I was 16) but disquieting. If I remember correctly, it was an cheat sheet for becoming a slum lord. I soured on it completely when I realised that Kiyosaki had become rich by selling a board game called The Cashflow Quadrant about how to become rich. So yeah, spot the grifter.

Jamie says:

I think grift/scam is actual a semi positive term for some of these self help gurus, these people are after far more than just your money. They want to program you, and they’re very open about their objective, they want your money, time, endorsement & your success stories.

Yup. Like so much in our current state of so-called late stage capitalism,2 you and I are not just the customers; we are the product.

JP says:

Second, the unhealthy-ness that comes with people taking self-improvement too far has always facinated me but I don’t see it discussed so openly. I’m frustrated how self exploration and educating yourself in history, philosophy, psychology and spirituality so often bumps up against this unhealthy obsession with someone trying to ‘fix’ you and nothing ever being enough. It’s so healing to see this being talked about. Thank you so much.

Thanks JP! I’m sure there are healthy ways to explore this stuff. I’m convinced self-improvement is a pretty fundamental human impulse and I’m tired of seeing it monopolised by grifters and earning a reputation as garbage.

Kat says:

I feel like your assessment of self-help is quite gendered as you haven’t identified any of the ways parents (mostly mothers) are preyed on and all the ways they could be improving their parenting. I hope that’s included in your longer project 😊

This is true, and a good point. I replied to this comment when Kat wrote it on Webworm, but I wanted to do it again here. I’m looking at the world of self-improvement from my perspective, which is as mid as it is possible to be. I am a married straight white man with a corporate job, approaching the pointy end of my 30s, who has become overly interested in pull-ups. Fortunately, I have friends who identify otherwise and have different perspectives, and some of them have offered to write guest spots. Others have agreed to interviews. I’m looking forward to showing their perspectives here, and if you have expertise you’d like to see shared, I’d love to hear from you.

Some more recent comments! This one popped up just a couple of days ago but I forgot to reply. Linda says:

If you could share some tips on how to get out of bed when the alarm goes off that would be great!

Putting your phone away from your bed is just cruel to your morning self, I can’t do that to poor morning me.

Uhhh. I’ll share what works for me, in order of “sometimes effective” to “100 percent guaranteed effective:”

1. Putting my phone in a different room. Sorry! I do this most nights, and perversely, I find that the antici3 of getting up to see all the exciting messages that have undoubtedly arrived in the wee hours can help yank me out of bed. Then I get up and reply to work emails. Brains are weird.

2. This one is embarrassing, but it works. I pretend I’m a robot. Instead of trying to will myself out of bed, I just watch as my limbs kind of autonomously operate to drag me to the kitchen kettle where I can make coffee. Binary solo.

3. Acquire a child. Having a screaming infant in the house will get you out of bed at any hour of the day or night, repeatedly. I guarantee it. The human brain is hardwired to be unable to shut that sound out.

And, stealing advice from others: you might benefit from more sleep, if that is possible for you, and more exposure to sunlight in the morning. Both can really help.

More comments I forgot to reply to! Amy Smith says:

I once played assassins creed so much during highschool (HSC Trials) that I experienced the Tetris effect and was playing it when I closed my eyes and hearing/hallucinating the eagle scream 😳

Ugh, shut-eye hallucinations after doing the same thing too much during the day can be really intense. It’s happened to me with videogames many times, but the worst ones I ever experienced were when I worked as a beekeeper. I’d shut my eyes and they’d be full of bees.

Here’s one of my favourite comments, from the Two Wolves fakelore article, courtesy of my friend Jackson:

Shaped by late stage tech capitalism we’re being reduced to ‘gramable characters of ourselves with all the gory details almost literally filtered out. All this unfactchecked trite superficial bullshit is easy, it’s a nice story that helpfully neglects the complex’s realms of neuroscience, psychology, and physics (how the fuck do two full grown wolves fit inside a human let alone have enough space to fight?)

Now there’s nothing wrong with having a yarn and spinning a tale — even if it is a bit of a shit one. The problem arises when we’re so bombarded by these simple black/white narratives which just do not stack up with out insanely complex lived experience. They start to make us feel shit. If I could only tame that wolf. Next thing you know your YouTube recommendations are all videos about how to tame wild animals and your Insta ads are all at home surgery kits.

The weird thing is that Seneca kinda foresaw all of this. His works are littered with aphorisms which, 2000 years later, still ring true.

To boil this all down to one pithy quote — and tie up this little story where I’ve railed against little narratives which fit nicely in gift wrapped boxes replete with bow — here is Seneca:

“We are more often frightened than hurt; and we suffer more from imagination than from reality”

Oversimplifying problems, then trying to solve them, is at the root of so much of what is wrong with self-improvement. Alphas and betas. Two wolves. Crows and eagles. The mating habits of Maine lobsters. You can’t fix those things, because the metaphors are too tortured and have devolved into nonsense. It’s a brilliant insight. Thank you, Jackson.

Final word on Two Wolves goes to another old friend and welcome presence here on CGTSI, Lucy:

For my coaching work I’m learning about Acceptance and Commitment Therapy (ACT) and was listening to a podcast interview (ironically, on a podcast called The One You Feed) with Russ Harris, who is an excellent writer on the topic. Check him out (The Happiness Trap should be required reading). Anyway, he doesn’t like the metaphor, because he thinks as long as the wolves are fighting neither will win – better to have the wolves learn to coexist and make peace with each other, to co-operate and work together, because neither can dominate the other for long.

I really like that. Starving wolves are notoriously troublesome. So don’t starve the wolf. Befriend it. If you’re going to indulge the metaphor, this seems like a healthy way to do so.

And, lastly, here’s my increasingly insurmountable reading and podcast list, as recommended by you. Feel free to suggest more in the comments! I look forward to reading them at some point in the next decade or so.

Podcasts to check out

• Conspirituality
• If Books Could Kill
• Maintenance Phase
• What Matters Most

Books to check out

• Feeling Good by David Burns
• The Book You Wish Your Parents Had Read by Philippa Perry
• Keeping House While Drowning by KC Davis
• Feel The Fear And Do It Anyway by Susan Jeffers
• How To Do The Work by Dr. Nicole LePera
• Suckers by Rose Shapiro
• Slow by Brooke McAlary
• The Happiness Trap by Russ Harris
• Things Might Go Terribly, Horribly Wrong by Kelly G. Wilson and Troy DuFrene
• The Life-Changing Magic Of Not Giving A Fuck by Sarah Knight

YouTubers to tolerate

• WheezyWaiter
• Iilluminaughtii

Even more self-improvement stuff to do / strenuously avoid

• Reiki
• Tai Chi
• Sound healing(!)
• Crystals
• Oils
• Wellness festivals

That’s it for now! Thanks for your kind and thoughtful comments. You make this newsletter what it is, and I’m stoked to have you here. Now, I’ve got a request: please talk amongst yourselves! I’d love to hear from those who might have been feeling a bit shy up until now, and for you to let other readers know what you’re about. Let’s hear your ideas about self-improvement, and (especially) in what ways you’ve found self help has actually helped your selves. It’s all valid and interesting. Sound off in the comments, and then I can do another one of these clip-show newsletters when I next have a frantic week at work.

Also here is a painting I did. First watercolour in a year and a half.