August 2, 2026

The Weight of the World

Enough to suffocate under.

There is a certain pain to being aware. A conscience of consciousness. The more you seek to be informed and educated about the state of the world, the more depressing it all becomes.

The world has been bad before, certainly. The world was also less connected, and there was a certain level of blissful ignorance to the breadth of just how much there is to be aware of. The scope is impossible to fathom in its entirety and exhausting to contemplate for any amount of time.

There’s a bias to it, of course. We’ve been tuning the levers of human consumption for far too long and we’ve decided that outrage is the button that powers the Skinner box of content engagement that defines the operating parameters surrounding ‘The Discourse’. Outrage and its byproduct, existential despair. Hyperbole and divisive language, crafted to satisfy the never-ending hunger for engagement. If your content isn’t seen, it doesn’t matter. There is no reward to toil in obscurity, certainly.

Obviously I don’t subscribe to that ideology. Although the fact that I publish even these myopic thoughts to a public journal hints towards some desire for recognition, I suppose. I’m not actually sure. There are far more posts that never see the light of day and will most likely languish in the drafts forevermore, but it’s worth examining my own predilection for publicity. But I digress, one digression of many amongst these kinds of rambling train of thoughts that I deign to write down.

The cancerous engagement algorithm aside, there is a friction in attempting to be conscious of the world. By means of example, in my own curated bubble, the following line items contribute to my current spiral of helplessness in the face of accelerating global annihilation. (I spelt annihilation correctly on the first attempt, cool)

The list immediately got overly complicated on the first pass, so I will attempt, for once in my life, some semblance of brevity for sake of argument:

  • Wildfires
  • Climate Change
  • Data Centers
  • Global Conflict
  • Political Corruption
  • Pollution and Environmental Destruction
  • Affordability
  • AI
  • Billionaires
  • Wealth Inequality
  • Food Insecurity
  • Famine
  • Over-consumption

There’s obviously a Venn Diagram where all of these items overlap in various regards, but this is an obviously not-exhaustive list of topics that are present in current global discourse. This list is not universal, but is at least representative of ‘topics that are important to current global discourse in some fashion’. These topics are also incredibly depressing, when viewed as a whole. It is difficult to truly know the current state of affairs amidst the bias towards negativity and the kind of curation of media that makes it impossible to know how valid or editorialized the information you’re consuming is, but I think that even when allowing for these kinds of opinionated actions the overall prognosis is Pretty Fucking Grim. No amount of positive spin can assuage me of the knowledge that the world is more on fire now than it ever has been before, that more people are impoverished than ever and that we are more and more powerless to affect change in the face of massive global consolidation of wealth and resources. Those facts certainly don’t care about my feelings, and they can be independently verified outside of any particular narrative.

It becomes difficult to operate under this oppressive weight of inevitable global calamity. I honestly cannot fault anyone for adopting indifference or apathy as a means of survival in the face of such overwhelming nihilism. I am constantly in awe of those who can muster up defiance and some days I can count myself among them. On other days I am paralyzed by the burden of knowledge and it is a struggle to meet even the most basic of obligations.

Who wants to do laundry when the world is on fire? Is it even ethical to do laundry in times like these? Is the more beneficial action to not do laundry, or to rally against the larger contributors to global pollution and climate change? How do you even begin? All of this is just one example of the kind of spiraling inner monologue that occurs when you are aware of the ills of the world, but also lack any meaningful outlet that would affect change.

So you spend an hour writing a blog post that no one will read as a means of catharsis.

That was probably not the most efficient use of time or effort, to be fair. But it at least allows me to quiet the noise and tread metaphorical water, in lieu of drowning in despair.

I realize that I start off most things with very grandiose language that insinuates a more declarative experience than is probably necessary. My experience is certainly not universal, and perhaps it isn’t even that common. I can only speak for myself, and regardless of my penchant for prescriptive prose, I should write accordingly.

I do love me some alliteration, though. Even if it’s somewhat strained. At the end of the day, all words are made up, you can’t stop me.

A normal person would probably go back and edit the preceding statements to better reflect these observations, but in an attempt at authenticity, these remain mostly stream of consciousness thoughts that I transcribe, much to the chagrin of future-me. Mostly. Usually I just don’t publish it at all.

June 20, 2026

My Brain Is Still Good.

I hate what AI has started to force upon me, and what I have let it do.

My workplace moves fast, is messy, but believes that all motion is inherently good. Benchmarks are measured in lines of code, how many PRs were shipped, how many new features have been added. Caution is an absolute unknown, and restraint or recalcitrance is viewed with increased skepticism. We can’t slow down, speed is good, breaking things means we build them back, better. The only progress is through unchecked and uncritical iteration. We can only multiply, we will never subtract, divide and we will never EVER stop.

It’s exhausting. It’s maddening. And in an effort to keep pace, I have been forced to sacrifice my morals and my good judgement over and over again. I watch my colleagues automate their jobs away, and I begin to question how much I can continue to rely on their technical competence. Yet in the need to keep pace, I too must turn to the monster we’ve hitched ourselves to in an effort to not get left behind.

I immediately feel stupider. Issues that I once would properly think AROUND and think THROUGH immediately get derailed by an assertion that lines up on paper, but fundamentally fails to consider the breadth of the problem. If this answer is wrong, there is no lateral thinking to apply to understand why or reassess the approach. The sunk cost fallacy is too great and now I have to depend on The Machine to tell me the next answer.

I can feel my brain atrophying and I hate it. I see it in what I produce. My first project was a mess, but I understand it and all of its shortcomings. The second phase is a blur, looking at words I don’t remember writing and code that is unnecessary and inelegant brute force solutions to simple problems. The pride of a job well done is replaced with a begrudging acceptance of ‘good enough’, as the standards trend lower and lower. Another function uncritically copy/pasted. Another opportunity to learn dashed upon the lie of progress at all costs.

Yet I must persist, because the quality of my work is not being scrutinized, only the volume of my output. The elegant and resourceful functions I build take too long, they’re too mindful. Hand-writing the documentation to be human-readable is too slow, people want things to be written to be consumed by AI in this hellish ouroboros where we are actively removing our own agency and becoming bystanders to our own words and ideas. We create this degenerative feedback loop and demolish any possibility of expertise. It’s the ‘you will own nothing’ economy distilled to it’s final form. You no longer own your own thoughts, you give them away wholesale to The Machine, trading friction for the convenience of presumed clarity.

Is it really so uncomfortable to admit what we don’t know? Are we really in a rush to reach the ‘right’ answer that we don’t care to learn from the mistakes that were necessary to get us there? It flies in the face of every trite idiom we’ve ever subscribed to. The butterfly needs to struggle to emerge from the cocoon, the friction is painful but necessary. Parents need to watch their children fall to know that they will learn how to pick themselves back up again. We cannot become such dopamine addicted slaves to the euphoria of the easiest path, not only because of the humanity and agency that is lost in the bargain, but because it is fundamentally an illusion.

AI doesn’t just rob us of toil, it robs us of learning, of knowledge, of self-realization and growth. The use of AI in development should be called Arrested Development because that is truly what it is. The undisciplined mind will become stagnant and once AI has cannibalized every novel thought humanity has to offer, we will enter a stalemate of intellectual decline. The loss of the Library of Alexandria wasn’t only the loss of knowledge that has been, but loss of the knowledge that could be gained from it. We are the arbiters of our own existence, and we would rather shut ourselves away and listen to the regurgitated thoughts of our betters rather than pick up the damn pen and write and think and fail and learn and try.

I usually couch these thoughts in more reasoned ‘both sides’ neutrality, because I know the industry I work in and I know what side of the bread is buttered. Which is a shame, because I do see a use for this technology. It is a great aggregator, able to parse and retrieve relevant information through layers of semantic search and structured language application that I truly do not comprehend but am impressed by regularly. If everyone approached it with a measured sense of caution and the fundamental understanding that the fastest answer isn’t always ‘fast’ in the long term… Maybe we wouldn’t be speed-running the destruction of the planet in favour of delivering shareholder value. Data centers won’t nourish me, and aren’t fundamental to the sustained continuance of human life as we know it.

The Faustian bargain isn’t that hard to grasp, but we seem inexorably drawn to it nonetheless.

As evidenced by the incredible digressions and meandering train of thought, this post was entirely written by me. I did briefly alt-tab to make sure I was correctly applying the term ‘Faustian bargain’, because I don’t trust my brain anymore.

My brain is still good, though. It’s fucking amazing. It’s curious and agile and sometimes thinks incredibly poignant things or terrible puns or sometimes both and oftentimes neither. Having that stolen from me under the guise of progress is such short-sighted late-stage capitalist nonsense and it kills my soul.

Thinking about this for too long depresses me in a way that is… Actually incredibly on-brand for my particular misanthropic ‘I used to have a Livejournal and never stopped’ style of navel-gazing, but it’s not good for my mental health. Although writing this post was someone cathartic. None of the words or thoughts are particularly novel, but they’re mine and prove that I can still have them. That my brain is still good.

Look at that. Full circle moment.

June 11, 2026

An Idea.

Only one? No.

MANY ideas. I have them. Too many ideas.

I just need… A domain.

And then to build the thing.

A name. A domain. A thing. Panama. Why did that come to me? Oh! I remember.

… A man, a plan, a canal, Panama.

It’s a palindrome.

…OHHHHHH.

October 20, 2022

To be Understood, and to Understand

I’ve become increasingly bad at ‘people’, and I am starting to come to terms that I don’t think I’ve ever really understood how to ‘people’. As much as social graces and interpersonal relationships are a learned skill, I realize now that the amount of effort to understand and act within those parameters can vary wildly. For me, it is a constant calculation running in the background of my mind. Every time that I forget that internalized editorial process, the results are… Unfortunate.

I find myself struggling to justify my introverted nature in the face of my theatre and performance background, but when I examine things through this lens, it begins to make sense. At least, to me. A performance has constraints, structure, expectations and can exist outside of social pressures. Give me a script, I no longer worry about what I am going to say. Give me a character, now I have another personality to assume that takes me further away from myself. It almost sounds like an excuse. It wasn’t me, it was my character. I’m sure there’s legal precedent defending heinous crimes using the same logic. A Twinkie Defence for Introverts.

Sorry, I was trying to be pithy but I think that was a bit of a reach. Might be a good name for a band, though.

I hate how this particular barrier where I’m trying to be understood and not being able to understand or get clarification hamstrings my attempts to contribute to public discourse. I need structure, I need a shared basis of knowledge, I need people to stop and explain concepts to me or confirm my understanding of them. I need things to slow down and make space for me. Every time I attempt to make space for myself, I get too incensed, too frustrated, too loud, and I leave feeling like an idiot or an asshole.

Never mind the added dimension of trying to apologize for myself, that very female learned behaviour. I default to self-admonishment to defuse and excuse myself. I overextend, self-flagellate (internally), and retreat.

I’m just coming at this from the wrong perspective, my bad

This must be something I don’t have enough experience in, I’ll try to educate myself on the subject

I’m sorry for derailing everything with my questions

This is probably common knowledge for everyone else

I resolve to stop talking, to be content in the background, to literally bite my tongue, but it never lasts. For all my attempts to just shut the fuck up, I never do. I want so badly to let people know that I too, understand the thing. I too, have thoughts about the thing. I probably have a litany of useless facts about the thing, but that is one of the things I remind myself is not strictly helpful, necessary or wanted.

I want to demonstrate value. I want to belong. I want to justify my inclusion.

Better to remain silent and be thought a fool, than to speak and remove all doubt.

Abraham Lincoln

I am Boo Boo the Fool. Look upon my works, ye mighty, and… Be confused, probably.

September 3, 2020

On Loss and Little Sorrows

I’m not a fan of disclosing my personal brand of meandering inner narrative to the web at large. This isn’t going to be a Facebook post, or a pithy Tweet.

On September 1st, 2020, my father finally succumbed to his long and arduous fight with cancer. It was a saga of a number of years, a slow and plodding pace to the grave. A sad decline for anyone, made worse for the prideful man that my father was, to slowly lose his independence.

I would not wish it for anyone, even someone with as complicated a life as my father.

Now isn’t the time to delve into the nuance of my father’s life and his actions. He was, like everyone, a person of layers, made up of good and bad. Above all else, he was my father and I am more impacted by this loss than I thought I’d be.

The sadness comes in fits and starts, in little regrets and remembrances. A classic car on the street, the Discovery channel, a day at the CNE. I wrote something I wanted to read to him before he passed, but could never work up the nerve, since reading it meant that I’d accepted his death and that wasn’t a thought I could reckon with. That is a regret which will follow me, and I have to live with. I couldn’t even leave it with him to read, by the end he wasn’t really able to do even that. I post it here for… I don’t know, so that the words exist somewhere.

“Hey Dad,


I wanted to give you something that you can keep, can hold and read and reread and have that helps explain the person you are to me.

I have a picture in my head of you that I will keep forever. A portrait of all the precious moments that represent ‘Dad’ in my head, the things that will always remind me of you no matter where I am. I have the memory of you making french toast on Sunday mornings, of going to car shows and sharing in your hobbies, of trips to theme parks and exhibitions, of vacations where we kayaked, road horses and cycled, and a memorable time in Spain with a maitre’d you insisted was a ‘really good looking guy’.

I remember going to Costa Rica with no real expectations of what I would do or see there, and you acting as the gracious host and perennial tourguide. Going hiking up a mountain, ziplining through the trees, visiting a butterfly sanctuary and staying at a hotel with more monkeys than people. All of these experiences are held dear in my heart, and will forever paint the picture of you as my father.

My memories aren’t solely dedicated to these grand gestures and decadent demonstrations. The quiet moments are equally precious to me. Of hours spent in the garage, watching you work on your latest endeavor, be it tiny trees, hot rods or jewelry making. Your bonsai, corvette and pendant necklace are some of the most vibrant images that conjure up ‘you’ in my mind. I’m pretty sure my own insatiable appetite for hobbies, to try everything and throw myself into anything full-stop, are part of me that I owe to you.

You fostered my interest in computers and technology at an early age, bringing me back magazines like MacWorld and MacAddict with CDs full of software for me to while away the hours pouring over. Your interest in technology fueled my own, and we could spend hours talking about the latest news from Apple. I will always be thankful for this, as my relationship with computers and technology has become something of a defining trait in my life.

I know that I’m not the easiest person to deal with, nor the easiest child to raise. Despite my differences and the challenges in raising someone like me, I feel like you embraced a lot of the things that make me different, and even celebrated them.

While it might not be evident in our interactions, I’m proud to have you as my father. Your entrepreneurial spirit, your dedication to being your own boss and blazing your own trail, and your determination to take your humble beginnings and turn them into a portrait of success.

I know it’s selfish to think of, even now, but I want the opportunity to make you proud of me. Where Jacquie and Lee Ann have their families and their careers and have lives that let you know that they’re going to be okay, I’ve always been a step behind and a dollar short. I can only promise you that I’ll live a life that will make you proud of me, just as you’ve lived a life to be proud of.

I love you, in every small thoughtful gesture, in family gatherings, in shared hobbies and forgiving past misdeeds. I love you with every fond memory and treasured moment from my youth up until today. I love you for all the times I didn’t say it before, and I love you for all the times I won’t be able to say it again. It will never be enough.

My one and only father, now and forever.

Devin”

It’s not enough, but it’s all I can do now.

December 7, 2018

The Long Road Back.

Okay. Well, the gist of the post that was eaten by WordPress was about my most recent descent into depression, and my struggles with mental illness and being a functional human being in this crazy world we live in. I’m going to dust myself off and try again (try again), because I think it’s still beneficial to try and put these feelings into words. 

I struggle with depression, which manifests in many different ways that I am becoming more acutely aware of as I try to meander my way through life as a semi-competent adult human being. 

It is so much more than simply ‘being sad sometimes’. It is… A fog, a haze, something like Hamlet’s ‘trappings and the suits of woe’, a heavy coat that weighs you down both mentally and physically. It is exhausting, to labour under this weight for every day of your life, and any reprieve seems fleeting and ephemeral at best. Depression sours every victory and poisons the mind in ways that twist a person into a shadow of themselves, and in my moments of clarity, of medication and manic upswings, I find myself unable to recognize the person and the thoughts that seem so prevalent in my deep depression.

This schism of personality is both stark and alarming.

Admitting to this kind of personal failing in such a public manner is a daunting task. Which is kind of funny, since the litany of blogs I’ve kept before this one, mostly in my teenage years, very freely discussed these thoughts, albeit without much of a clinical lens. There’s something less judgemental about a moody teen writing self-absorbed blog posts about the pains of adolescence versus an adult acknowledging their continued setbacks and attempts to succeed in spite of this fundamental detriment. As a teen, this sort of sometimes sadness is seen as a right of passage, a trick of overactive hormones on the developing brain. For these feelings to continue into adulthood seems almost shameful, an inability to cast off the self-indulgent navel-gazing of one’s teenage years. 

Another strange correlation that seems borne of this depressive descent is the crippling lack of self-confidence, or just an overwhelming sense of self-doubt. Just as my teenage self seemed able to publish a litany of mindless dialogues with little regard to their tone or impact, my current self pours over the words I write and finds most of them wanting. I leave skeletons of drafts, half-finished thoughts, and other remains of work left undone or un-started. A once therapeutic exercise, something I once took a middling amount of pride in, I find myself unable to consummate. 

And it just makes me hate myself even more. 

So I try this. An attempt to make my way back to a better version of myself. A healthier version of myself. A return to words, and to have the courage to both write them, and share them.

Now let’s see if WordPress eats this post too. 

November 29, 2018

OKAY. WELL.

I wrote a really long and poignant post about how difficult the past few days have been for me, struggling with mental illness and all that, and WordPress decided to screw up my authentication somewhere in the interim and what SHOULD have been autosaved was actually NOT autosaved and so now you just get me raging at shitty WordPress Gutenburg garbage.

THANKS WORDPRESS. THANKS EVER SO MUCH YOU PIECE OF SHIT GARBAGE FUCKHOLE.

Well. At least I can feel SOMETHING right now. And that is ANGER. 

Fucking GARBAGE PHP PIECE OF SHIT ASS FUCKWAFFLE CREDENTIALS EDITOR SHITSTICK.

I am so angry I can feel it in my diaphragm. Like, right below my ribcage. That is apparently where anger comes from. 

You COULD have had a nice introspective musing on my attempt to reclaim my mind from the ravages of a deep depression that has plagued me since I was a child, but no. Now you get swears. Not even creative swears!

ASS BUNGLING SHITTY CRACKERJACK SHITSHINGLES.

UGHHHHHH. 

Fuck.

June 23, 2018

Striking Out In All Directions

In both the baseball-metaphor sense, and the ‘flailing wildly with no particular goal in mind’ sense.

Something like throwing spaghetti at the wall and seeing nothing stick. Perhaps I forgot to cook the spaghetti? What is the cooking of spaghetti in this metaphor? Hmm.

Digression happens now, because I have lost the point.

Right! The point was…

Wait.

Something self-indulgent and melancholy, I’m sure. Lack of… Momentum. Upward mobility. Progress? Yes. Too many ambitions, none of them yielding any sort of traction. I suppose that’s always been something of a problem of mine. I have the desire to do anything, everything, always and all at once, but attempting to spread oneself in so many myriad directions simultaneously gets nothing of value accomplished.

I feel like I’m always trying to catch up on time wasted, time misspent. Like I have to explode in every direction in an attempt to gain back the ground I lost to other fruitless pursuits.

There’s a tally being kept of my life, and I fear my account is irreparably in arrears.

… Is this ‘FOMO’?

 

Big Mood.

May 7, 2018

Consumer Woes OR EA Doesn’t Understand Ecommerce

I’m writing this quick post while I’m waiting for a ‘Customer Support Advisor’ to try and resolve what is kind of a messed-up problem for an ecommerce platform to have.

I made the mistake of wanting to give EA (Electronic Arts) my money, by using their Origin platform to purchase a game on my PC. Seems like a regular enough occurrence, right? Literally why the Origin service exists, right? Give them the money through my computer, download the games onto my computer, bam. Steam manages to attain this base level of functionality (albeit sometimes very poorly, and with a bloated and dated UI/infrastructure), so EA must surely be able to do the most basic step in ecommerce and TAKE MY PAYMENT INFORMATION, yes?

Of course not. This post wouldn’t exist if they could. Also we’re talking about Electronic Arts here.

Oh! I’m being escalated to a Customer Support SPECIALIST. It’s gonna take a SPECIALIST to get to the bottom of this hum-dinger of a problem!

The problem being: EA does not know how to validate my credit card on their Origin platform.

So, literally the thing that this platform exists to do.

I mean, I’ve built more competent ecommerce websites/apps as a single person.

I’ll take some screenshots of the chat conversation that I’m having with the ‘Advisor’- OH HECK, they have a button where you can just save a PDF of the conversation? That’s… Actually useful. In this one particular circumstance. I’m shook.

Unnecessarily long and complicated story short, I ended up having to use my credit card through Paypal for Origin to accept my money. So I had to go through an unnecessary third party with my credit card info in order for Origin to do what it is literally designed to do. Wowzers.

EA is garbage.

May 4, 2018

Still Here!

Still queer, get used to it, blah blee bloo.

Just wanted to drop a note for myself, and I guess… For the internet? Dunno. I got a neat idea for a mother’s day gift. Well, I think so, anyways.

I’m going to turn my mother’s writing into a font. Typeface. Whichever.

I’ve always liked the way my mother prints letters. My writing is awful, but I’ve always wanted to write like she does.

So I’m going to get her to write out the alphabet in her printing, and transform it into a free-to-use font for everyone to share. Yay? Yes. Also I will learn how to make fonts. Which I know a little about already.