This is not a “blog”, per se.
This is a cultural biopsy. It’s a long-form death spiral into nostalgia-as-grief branding. It’s a meme-coded brain rot engine for ephemeral digital hysteria.
Dreamt up during a post-Gigli fugue state, it’s a manifesto for emoji-based crisis response; a tripwire for starting conversations with “Hey, quick thing—” then devolving into existential collapse; it’s an ode to the divine semi-permanence of Paris Hilton’s mugshot.
It’s for the Media Faithful: for those who can recite Criterion Collection spine numbers from memory but still have to ask ChatGPT “In what order should I watch Fast & Furious?”; whose group chat has become both therapist and cult documentarian; for the screen-haunted saints of static who think too hard, feel too weird, and stare unblinking into the blue light long enough to see God—or at least take a quick BuzzFeed quiz about Him.
POP CULTURE,
BUT MAKE IT CHAOS.
“All meaning is just absence disguised as presence—or, in simpler terms, every movie franchise eventually becomes fucking Minions.”
I was raised on reruns, mid-tier mall food, and one regrettable summer ranking every VH1 Behind The Music episode.
So if you want credentials: I don’t have them.
Unless you call 1) getting kicked out of three different discussion boards for overexplaining Degrassi, 2) live-commenting a Criterion Channel trial like a Twitch stream, or 3) treating a Mortal Kombat strategy guide like scripture, “credentials”.
I’ve been semi-professionally overthinking pop culture since the first time my elementary school teachers called me “too much” and I thought, “Actually, that sounds right.”
A former gifted child now suffering from praise-based motivation brain damage, I’m currently a freelance symptom masquerading as a personality, powered entirely by iced coffee, nostalgia, several unfulfilled brand partnerships, rumination over the ethical expectations of cereal mascots, and the lingering belief that irony counts as cardio.
I have studied media theory under an adjunct professor who got fired for making every syllabus about The Matrix. I once cried in an Urban Outfitters fitting room because a song played that reminded me of a Vine. I was a deeply unserious music critic who referred to a Sufjan song as “biblical” and meant it.
Known primarily for live-tweeting a public meltdown that caused a support group to disband by equating generational trauma to the disbanding of My Chemical Romance, being barred from participating in a panel discussion for continuing to refer to Shrek as “an American allegory”, and being soft-blocked by numerous mutuals for using a group chat to continue to compare a Real Housewives feud to the Peloponnesian War, I am a participant in a very intense Buffy rewatch server, own a raw denim bathrobe that has the word “WRITER” in all caps embroidered on the lapel, an am currently two very different cult leaders (one spiritual, one retail).
No, I’m not proud of any of this, but at least I’m consistent.