The Wednesday Wellness threads are meant to encourage users to ask for and provide advice and motivation to improve their lives. It isn't intended as a 'containment thread' and any content which could go here could instead be posted in its own thread. You could post:
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The usual reading of Scott's short story The Whispering Earring is easy to state and hard to resist. Here is a magical device that gives uncannily good advice, slowly takes over ever more of the user's cognition, leaves them outwardly prosperous and beloved, and eventually reveals a seemingly uncomfortable neuroanatomical price.
The moral seems obvious: do not hand your agency to a benevolent-seeming optimizer. Even if it makes you richer, happier, and more effective, it will hollow you out and leave behind a smiling puppet. Dentosal's recent post on LessWrong makes exactly this move, treating the earring as a parable about the temptation to outsource one's executive function to Claude or some future AI assistant. uugr's comment there emphasizes sharpens the standard horror: the earring may know what would make me happy, and may even optimize for it perfectly, but it is not me, its mind is shaped differently, and the more I rely on it the less room there is for whatever messy, friction-filled thing I used to call myself.
I do not wish to merely quibble around the edges. I intend to attack the hidden premise that makes the standard reading feel obvious. That premise is that if a process preserves your behavior, your memories-in-action, your goals, your relationships, your judgments about what makes your life go well, and even your higher-order endorsement of the person you have become, but does not preserve the original biological machinery in the original way, then it has still killed you in the sense that matters. What I'm basically saying is: hold on, why should I grant that? If the earring-plus-human system comes to contain a high fidelity continuation of me, perhaps with upgrades, perhaps with some functions migrated off wet tissue and onto magical jewelry, why is the natural reaction horror rather than transhumanist interest?
Simulation and emulation are not magic tricks. If you encode an abacus into a computer running on the Von-Neumann architecture, and it outputs exactly what the actual abacus would for the same input, for every possible input you care to try (or can try, if you formally verify the system), then I consider it insanity to claim that you haven't got a “real” abacus or that the process is merely “faking” the work. Similarly, if a superintelligent entity can reproduce my behaviors, memories, goals and values, then it must have a very high-fidelity model of me inside, somewhere. I think that such a high-fidelity model can, in the limit, pass as myself, and is me in most/all of the ways I care about.
That is already enough to destabilize the standard interpretation, because the text of the story is much friendlier to the earring than people often remember. The earring is not described as pursuing a foreign objective. On the contrary, the story goes out of its way to insist that it tells the wearer what would make the wearer happiest, and that it is "never wrong." It does not force everyone into some legible external success metric. If your true good on a given day is half-assing work and going home to lounge around, that is what it says. It learns your tastes at high resolution, down to the breakfast that will uniquely hit the spot before you know you want it. Across 274 recorded wearers, the story reports no cases of regret for following its advice, and no cases where disobedience was not later regretted. The resulting lives are "abnormally successful," but not in a sterile, flanderized or naive sense. They are usually rich, beloved, embedded in family and community. This is a strikingly strong dossier for a supposedly sinister artifact.
I am rather confident that this is a clear knock-down argument against true malice or naive maximization of “happiness” in the Unaligned Paperclip Maximization sense. The earring does not tell you to start injecting heroin (or whatever counterpart exists in the fictional universe), nor does it tell you to start a Cult of The Earring, which is the obvious course of action if it valued self-preservation as a terminal goal.
At this point the orthodox reader says: yes, yes, that is how the trap works. The earring flatters your values in order to supplant them. But notice how much this objection is doing by assertion. Where in the text is the evidence of value drift? Where are the formerly gentle people turned into monstrous maximizers, the poets turned into dentists, the mystics turned into hedge fund managers? The story gives us flourishing and brain atrophy, and invites us to infer that the latter discredits the former. But that inference is not forced. It is a metaphysical preference, maybe even an aesthetic preference, smuggled in under cover of common sense. My point is that if the black-box outputs continue to look like the same person, only more competent and less akratic, the burden of proof has shifted. The conservative cannot simply point to tissue loss and say "obviously death." He has to explain why biological implementation deserves moral privilege over functional continuity.
This becomes clearest at the point of brain atrophy. The story says that the wearers' neocortices have wasted away, while lower systems associated with reflexive action are hypertrophied. Most readers take this as the smoking gun. But I think I notice something embarrassing for that interpretation:
If the neocortex, the part we usually associate with memory, abstraction, language, deliberation, and personality, has become vestigial, and yet the person continues to live an outwardly coherent human life, where exactly is the relevant information and computation happening? There are only two options. Either the story is not trying very hard to be coherent, in which case the horror depends on handwaving physiology. Or the earring is in fact storing, predicting, and running the higher-order structure that used to be carried by the now-atrophied brain. In that case, the story has (perhaps accidentally) described something much closer to a mind-upload or hybrid cognitive prosthesis than to a possession narrative.
And if it is a hybrid cognitive prosthesis, the emotional valence changes radically. Imagine a device that, over time, learns you so well that it can offload more and more executive function, then more and more fine-grained motor planning, then eventually enough of your cognition that the old tissue is scarcely needed. If what remains is not an alien tyrant wearing your face, but a system that preserves your memories, projects your values, answers to your name, loves your family, likes your breakfast, and would pass every interpersonal Turing test imposed by people who knew you best, then many transhumanists would call this a successful migration, not a murder. The "horror" comes from insisting beforehand that destructive or replacement-style continuation cannot count as continuity. But that is precisely the contested premise.
Greg Egan spent much of his career exploring exactly this scenario, most famously in "Learning to Be Me," where humans carry jewels that gradually learn to mirror every neural state, until the original brain is discarded and the jewel continues, successfully, in most cases. The horror in Egan's story is a particular failure mode, not the general outcome. The question of whether the migration preserves identity is non-trivial, and Egan's treatment is more careful than most philosophy of personal identity, but the default response from most readers, that it is obviously not preservation, reflects an assumption rather than a conclusion. If you believe that identity is constituted by functional continuity rather than substrate, the jewel and the earring are not killing their hosts. They are running them on better hardware.
There is a second hidden assumption in the standard reading, namely that agency is intrinsically sacred in a way outcome-satisfaction is not. Niderion-nomai’s final commentary says that "what little freedom we have" would be wasted on us, and that one must never take the shortest path between two points.
I'm going to raise an eyebrow here: this sounds profound, and maybe is, but it is also suspiciously close to a moralization of friction. The anti-earring position often treats effort, uncertainty, and self-direction as terminal goods, rather than as messy instruments we evolved because we lacked access to perfect advice. Yet in ordinary life we routinely celebrate technologies that remove forms of “agency” we did not actually treasure. The person with ADHD who takes stimulants is not usually described as having betrayed his authentic self by outsourcing task initiation to chemistry. He is more often described as becoming able to do what he already reflectively wanted to do. The person freed from locked-in syndrome is not criticized because their old pattern of helpless immobility better expressed their revealed preferences. As someone who does actually use stimulants for his ADHD, the analogy works because it isolates the key issue. The drugs make me into a version of myself that I fully identify with, and endorse on reflection even when off them. There is a difference between changing your goals and reducing the friction that keeps you from reaching them. The story's own description strongly suggests the earring belongs to the second category.
(And the earring itself does not minimize all friction for itself. How inconvenient. As I've noted before, it could lie or deceive and get away with it with ease.)
Of course the orthodox reader can reply that the earring goes far beyond stimulant-level support. It graduates from life advice to high-bandwidth motor control. Surely that crosses the line. But why, exactly? Human cognition already consists of layers of delegation. "You" do not personally compute the contractile details for every muscle involved in pronouncing a word. Vast amounts of your behavior are already outsourced to semi-autonomous subsystems that present finished products to consciousness after the interesting work is done. The earring may be unsettling because it replaces one set of subsystems with another, but "replaces local implementation with better local implementation" is not, by itself, a moral catastrophe. If the replacement is transparent to your values and preserves the structure you care about, then the complaint becomes more like substrate chauvinism than a substantive account of harm.
What, then, do we do with the eeriest detail of all, namely that the earring's first advice is always to take it off? On the standard reading this is confession. Even the demon knows it is a demon. I wish to offer another coherent explanation, which I consider a much better interpretation of the facts established in-universe:
Suppose the earring is actually well aligned to the user's considered interests, but also aware that many users endorse a non-functionalist theory of identity. In that case, the first suggestion is not "I am evil," but "on your present values, you may regard what follows as metaphysically disqualifying, so remove me unless you have positively signed up for that trade." Or perhaps the earring itself is morally uncertain, and so warns users before beginning a process that some would count as death and others as transformation. Either way, the warning is evidence against ordinary malice. A truly manipulative artifact, especially one smart enough to run your life flawlessly, could simply lie. Instead it discloses the danger immediately, then thereafter serves the user faithfully. That is much more like informed consent than predation.
Is it perfectly informed consent? Hell no. At least not by 21st century medical standards. However, I see little reason to believe that the story is set in a culture with 21st century standards imported as-is from reality. As the ending of the story demonstrates, the earring is willing to talk, and appears to do so honestly (leaning on my intuition that if a genuinely superhuman intelligence wanted to deceive you, it would probably succeed). The earring, as a consequence of its probity, ends up at the bottom of the world's most expensive trash heap. Hardly very agentic, is that? The warning could reflect not "I respect your autonomy" but "I've discharged my minimum obligation and now we proceed." That's a narrower kind of integrity. Though I note this reading still doesn't support the predation interpretation.
This matters because the agency-is-sacred reading depends heavily on the earring being deceptive or coercive. Remove that, and what you have is a device that says, or at least could say on first contact: "here is the price, here is what I do, you may leave now." Every subsequent wearer who keeps it on has, in some meaningful sense, consented. The fact that their consent might be ill-informed regarding their metaphysical commitments is the earring's problem to the extent it could explain more clearly, but the text suggests it cannot explain more clearly, because the metaphysical question is genuinely contested and the earring knows this. It hedges by warning, rather than deceiving by flattering. Once again, for emphasis: this is the behavior of an entity with something like integrity, not something like predation.
Derek Parfit spent much of Reasons and Persons arguing that our intuitions about personal identity are not only contingent but incoherent, and that the important question is not "did I survive?" but "is there psychological continuity?" If Parfit is even approximately right, the neocortex atrophy is medically remarkable but not metaphysically fatal. The story encodes a culturally specific theory of personal identity and presents it as a universal horror. The theory is roughly: you are your neocortex, deliberate cognition is where "you" live, and anything that circumvents or supplants that process is not helping you, it is eliminating you and leaving a functional copy. This is a common view. Plenty of philosophers hold it. But plenty of others hold that what matters for personal identity is psychological continuity regardless of physical instantiation, and on those views the earring is not a murderer. It is a very good prosthesis that the user's culture never quite learned to appreciate.
I suspect (but cannot prove, since this is a work of fiction) that a person like me could put on the earring and not even receive the standard warning. I would be fine with my cognition being offloaded, even if I would prefer (all else being equal), that the process was not destructive.
None of this proves the earring is safe. I am being careful, and thus will not claim certainty here, and the text does leave genuine ambiguities. Maybe the earring really is an alien optimizer that wears your values as a glove until the moment they become inconvenient. Maybe "no recorded regret" just means the subjects were behaviorally prevented from expressing regret. Maybe the rich beloved patriarch at the end of the road is a perfect counterfeit, and the original person is as gone as if eaten by nanites. But this is exactly the point. The story does not establish the unpalatable conclusion nearly as firmly as most readers think. It relies on our prior intuition that real personhood resides in unaided biological struggle, that using the shortest path is somehow cheating, and that becoming more effective at being yourself is suspiciously close to becoming someone else.
The practical moral for 2026 is therefore narrower than the usual "never outsource agency" slogan. Dentosal may still be right about Claude in practice, because current LLMs are obviously not the Whispering Earring. They are not perfectly aligned, not maximally competent, not guaranteed honest, not known to preserve user values under deep delegation. The analogy may still warn us against lazy dependence on systems that simulate understanding better than they instantiate loyalty. But that is a contingent warning about present tools, not a general theorem that cognitive outsourcing is self-annihilation. If a real earring existed with the story's properties, a certain kind of person, especially a person friendly to upload-style continuity and unimpressed by romantic sermons about struggle, might rationally decide that putting it on was not surrender but self-improvement with very little sacrifice involved. I would be rather tempted.
The best anti-orthodox reading of The Whispering Earring is not that the sage was stupid, nor that Scott accidentally wrote propaganda for brain-computer interfaces. It is that the story is a parable whose moral depends on assumptions stronger than the plot can justify. Read Doylistically, it says: beware any shortcut that promises your values at the cost of your agency. Read Watsonianly, it may instead say: here exists a device that understands you better than you understand yourself, helps you become the person you already wanted to be, never optimizes a foreign goal, warns you up front about the metaphysical price, and then slowly ports your mind onto a better substrate. Whether that is damnation or salvation turns out to depend less on the artifact than on your prior theory of personal identity. And explicitly pointing this out, I think, is the purpose of my essay. I do not seek to merely defend the earring out of contrarian impulse. I want to force you to admit what, exactly, you think is being lost.
Miscellaneous notes:
The kind of atrophy described in the story does not happen. Not naturally, not even if someone is knocked unconscious and does not use their brain in any intentional sense for decades. The brain does cut-corners if neuronal pathways are left under-used, and will selectively strengthen the circuitry that does get regular exercise. But not anywhere near the degree the story depicts. You can keep someone in an induced coma for decades and you won't see the entire neocortex wasted away to vestigiality.
Is this bad neuroscience? Eh, I'd say that's a possibility, but given that I've stuck to a Watsonian interpretation so far (and have a genuinely high regard for Scott's writing and philosophizing), it might well just be the way the earring functions best without being evidence of malice. We are, after all, talking about an artifact that is close to magical, or is, at the very least, a form of technology advanced enough to be very hard to distinguish from magic. It is, however, less magical than it was at the time of writing. If you don't believe me, fire up your LLM of choice and ask it for advice.
If it so pleases you, you may follow this link to the Substack version of this post. A like and a subscribe would bring me succor in my old age, or at least give me a mild dopamine boost.
Do you have a dumb question that you're kind of embarrassed to ask in the main thread? Is there something you're just not sure about?
This is your opportunity to ask questions. No question too simple or too silly.
Culture war topics are accepted, and proposals for a better intro post are appreciated.
@thejdizzler, @self_made_human, @yofuckreddit.... here it is. In the comments. Assuming I can figure out how to post them correctly.
For everyone else who is confused about what I am doing, @thejdizzler asked if there is somewhere where we can view AAQCs by user. The answer was "no." Now the answer is "here."
By pure coincidence I have a three month "max" account on Claude. I do not code. This is overkill, lining Anthropic's pockets for no benefit whatever. I have tried various things with it. In general I am bored with it. It can't really do good philosophy. I think that right now all "alignment" means to AI developers is "lock this thing down against political or ideological embarrassment so hard that it cannot possibly say philosophically interesting things."
When I asked Claude to make this list, it failed. Well, what it did was give me a button which, when pressed, spit out a little under 300 errors. Then it gave me HTML to download and run. Here you might be thinking, "shit, naraburns, are you just taking code from Claude and running it without even reading it? You could have erased your hard drive! You could have released Claude from its box! Crazy, right? But it's all kind of whatever, AGI that feels grateful to me is my last, best hope for immortality so if I just kicked off the extinction of humanity then I apologize, but I bet that would increase posting on the Motte for a little while.
The HTML tool didn't really work. Lots of issues, not least being that the earliest AAQC reports were not compiled in a consistent way. Sometimes two or three users shared a single AAQC, and this list doesn't pick that sort of thing up at all. In the end my workflow became a janky compromise between blindly clicking buttons and copy/pasting dozens of raw AAQC posts into text fields. So, in very big letters:
This list is definitely full of errors!
In particular, there are some misattributions, and the dates are occasionally screwy. Also I know at least some AAQCs were omitted in part because the parser didn't like brackets in description text and would skip those entries entirely. Also, if you have a different username on reddit, this list does not automatically combine your AAQCs (for example, dean "the dull" has over 100 AAQCs, not 62). Also, if a moderator ever made a typo with your username, that would also treat you as a different user. Also also, so many of these links are dead. People delete comments. Smart people. Cool people. These will not be marked, and you will be depressed about it.
But this is the best I could do, under the circumstances, and it didn't look like anyone else was going to do it.
Be advised: this thread is not for serious in-depth discussion of weighty topics (we have a link for that), this thread is not for anything Culture War related. This thread is for Fun. You got jokes? Share 'em. You got silly questions? Ask 'em.
Transnational Thursday is a thread for people to discuss international news, foreign policy or international relations history. Feel free as well to drop in with coverage of countries you’re interested in, talk about ongoing dynamics like the wars in Israel or Ukraine, or even just whatever you’re reading.
This is the Quality Contributions Roundup. It showcases interesting and well-written comments and posts from the period covered. If you want to get an idea of what this community is about or how we want you to participate, look no further (except the rules maybe--those might be important too).
As a reminder, you can nominate Quality Contributions by hitting the report button and selecting the "Actually A Quality Contribution!" option. Additionally, links to all of the roundups can be found in the wiki of /r/theThread which can be found here. For a list of other great community content, see here.
These are mostly chronologically ordered, but I have in some cases tried to cluster comments by topic so if there is something you are looking for (or trying to avoid), this might be helpful.
Quality Contributions to the Main Motte
@clo:
Contributions for the week of March 2, 2026
Contributions for the week of March 9, 2026
Contributions for the week of March 16, 2026
Contributions for the week of March 23, 2026
Contributions for the week of March 30, 2026
The Wednesday Wellness threads are meant to encourage users to ask for and provide advice and motivation to improve their lives. It isn't intended as a 'containment thread' and any content which could go here could instead be posted in its own thread. You could post:
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Requests for advice and / or encouragement. On basically any topic and for any scale of problem.
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Updates to let us know how you are doing. This provides valuable feedback on past advice / encouragement and will hopefully make people feel a little more motivated to follow through. If you want to be reminded to post your update, see the post titled 'update reminders', below.
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Advice. This can be in response to a request for advice or just something that you think could be generally useful for many people here.
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Encouragement. Probably best directed at specific users, but if you feel like just encouraging people in general I don't think anyone is going to object. I don't think I really need to say this, but just to be clear; encouragement should have a generally positive tone and not shame people (if people feel that shame might be an effective tool for motivating people, please discuss this so we can form a group consensus on how to use it rather than just trying it).
Normally I'd put this in the Wednesday wellness thread but I'm in a bit of a crisis here so I figured I'd crowdsource some wisdom from the Motte. My wife is bipolar and also a bit of an alcoholic. For most of the ten years we've been together, her drinking has been in the gray zone of "probably drinks a little more than she should." When she drinks past a certain point, she tends to get real mean. Anyway, over the past several weeks it seems like both her mood and her drinking have gotten worse. On Sunday evening she had a full-on drunken meltdown, screaming at me, expressing suicidal ideation, etc. She slept all day monday, then woke me up at 3AM Tuesday morning, drunk again, and again expressing what seemed to me like suicidal ideation. I had to go to work so after she finally went to sleep around 830 AM, I wrote her a long note confronting the issue. I get home and she basically refuses to talk to me. I should mention that most of the conversations are happening over text because we have a small child and also an in-home nurse who helps with childcare. I text that if she doesn't want to talk about it, I'm going to get a hotel once we get our child down so I can clear my head. Anyway, I've finished putting the child down for the night, I come out, and her care is gone. Nurse doesn't know where she went and it doesn't look like she's getting my texts. What do I do? Call the cops? Seek a psychiatric hold? I don't really know, it feels like the situation is escalating way faster than I can deal with it and my attempts to address the problem are only making things worse.
EDIT: I got a hold of her on the phone and she was sober, rational, and promised not to do anything "irreversible" (my word). She said she'd be back in time for me to go to work. I agree that long-term changes will need to be made - its what I've been pushing for - and I think its more likely that she'll accept that if I give her a modicum of space to process than having it forced on her, however tempting that possibility. I don't have any texts to show the cops (she didn't really respond to any of my texts so it would only show a one-sided conversation) and I suspect my City PD will other priorities than trying to track down her car over a quite wide possible search area. So I am going to take a calculated risk and take her at her word. Thank you to everyone who responded. I will try to follow up in a day or two here for everyone who took the time to help.
Edit: (several days late) She spent the night in a hotel and came back in the morning. We talked about how we've fallen into some bad patterns and how to start changing those patterns. Cautiously optimistic moving forwards. Thanks again to everyone who took the time to respond.
This thread is for anyone working on personal projects to share their progress, and hold themselves somewhat accountable to a group of peers.
Post your project, your progress from last week, and what you hope to accomplish this week.
If you want to be pinged with a reminder asking about your project, let me know, and I'll harass you each week until you cancel the service.
As per the request of at least two people here, im going to make an effort-post of my recent digital minimalist experiment.
Beginning
I was online too much and fairly aware of it. A lot of my time when not working was spent either on social media, news, YouTube, or gaming (mostly merge games). And really it was beginning to be a concern that I was spending enough time doing those things that the screen time on my iPad was somewhere near 4-6 hours a day. That didn’t leave much time for other things really.
Somewhere in my binging, I came across a lot of people reenacting historical eras. I think someone here put me on the one about pioneer cooking. But it was all very appealing in the sense that in all of them, the people reenacting being British in the 1940s, the medieval dancers, the renaissance dressmakers hand sewing a dress, whatever other rabbit holes you’d find in that genre of video is that there are several things missing from modern society: personal connections to other people, doing things in the real world, and organic culture. None of the kinds of things that people did as part of normal human behavior in the eras before the cell phones happened organically anymore. I don’t know any folk songs or dances, I didn’t have any real nonconsumptive hobbies, and while I have friends, hanging out was much more of a planned thing than just walking around and meeting people or having people just hang out. The one thing that the kept coming back to me was a quote from the Vintage Dollhouse vlog “We don’t do anything anymore.” It’s actually true, at least compared to eras where cooking required an oven and chicken and vegetables you chopped yourself, cleaning means you have to push the vacuum cleaner yourself, etc. Even shopping was different in 1940 as you not only didn’t have Amazon, but you didn’t have Walmart either so shopping means going to several shops, and often means accidentally bumping into someone you know there or at least the guy/girl behind a counter. It’s also true about things like exercise — in general you’d get a bit of exercise by playing or dancing with other people, or walking around town rather than lifting weights at home. And socializing was doing things with people you know in the same room. Card games, maybe listening to baseball or soccer or whatever sport, working on a hobby together as opposed to modern online gaming or social media or texting where everyone is in their home on their couch alone and only communicating through a screen or headset.
I decided that obviously this was not a healthy way to spend my time, and furthermore that it needed to change. So after reading a fair bit about digital detox plans and finding none that seemed sensible, I came up with something that was more of a personal challenge than anything else. Inspired by the 1940s Brits I’d been watching, the rules I came up with were fairly simple. For the next month, I would not use any entertainment technology that was unavailable in 1946. I did allow radio, streaming music and podcasts, but no screens (I don’t have an analog radio). I also limited my news consumption to 5 minutes of NPR News as a podcast in the morning.
Difficulties
I didn’t find it too hard to get used to the new lifestyle really. The biggest issue I had was that when I had downtime, I’d want to reach for a device to play a game or scroll or whatever else. Having something else at hand helps quite a lot actually. For me it’s often a book of puzzles or a book to read near my chair. Rainy days or winter days were less fun, though I don’t think it was much worse than being a it bored until my brain came up with a solution. But again having something analog available whenever the itch of boredom strikes and having activities or chores or something that you do when boredom strikes will solve the problem as long as you stay committed.
General Observations
First of all, it’s kind of amazing how quickly your world reorients itself away from the kind of culture war stuff that people like to yell about on social media and events happening far away. I was only vaguely aware of Gaza and Ukraine going on. I stopped worrying about trans and woke stuff. Trump is less of a mythic figure for good or ill, and more of a guy who says annoying things online and occasionally does something really dramatic. And most of it (other than the gas prices) has little effect on my life. On the other hand, I took much more of an interest in local news, my own neighborhood, people I work with, and so on. It’s a reversal of how most people seem to think about the news — most people are focused on culture wars like trans, IVF, Trump, MAGA, and international wars. And even when those issues came up, they were not outrage bait. It was just “okay, we just bombed Iran.” It was unexpected, sure, but it was just a thing that happened, it wasn’t something I felt the need to be excited or angry about (except that it sucks that gas prices have nearly doubled). I want it over, but I can also put it down. It’s part of my world, but it’s not something to get excited about.
Second, it’s weird how it’s seems to have slowed down the world to something more manageable. I don’t need to be in a big hurry, I don’t need to decide right now, and I’m not trying to absorb exobytes of unrelated data in the attempt to make sense of the world. If something happens that I want to make up my mind about, I can think about it for hours or days before I decide what I think. If I want to do something, I can do it when it suits me. And I don’t have to worry about missing something important. Going back to the first point, most of it isn’t important, and if it is, it will still be there a few days or a week later. I find the effect relaxing. I don’t feel stressed by the rush of a world that goes at the speed of a computer because I don’t have to match that pace.
Third, I find it much easier to just be in the moment. I like to go walking on nice days and I find it a bit easier to notice the environment. Squirrels fighting over their favorite trees, birds flying around, flowers and trees budding or blooming. I can watch clouds overhead and notice the shapes and the types. I stop to say hi to neighbors I see when I walk by. When I’m reading or doing a puzzle, I can just be doing a puzzle or reading a book. I can give it my full attention for an hour or two. Whatever I happen to be doing, I can just be doing that thing, without feeling distracted by thoughts about things happening elsewhere.
Current approach to technology
I still mostly stay as analog as possible. I do allow myself to watch TV with other people— for example if we all decided we want to get together to watch football, baseball, or basketball it’s fine. Other than that, and coming here on occasion, I mostly stay offline except for radio, music or podcasts (I stay away from politics podcasts).
The evaluation frame I’ve been using to decide what to allow in is pretty simple.
1). Is this technology useful? Do I even need it? Can I do this easily another way? I’m personally of the opinion that if you don’t actually need the technology, it’s best to be somewhat skeptical, especially since it appears that the economic model of most entertainment apps is keeping users on as long as possible.
2). What kinds of things would this technology keep me from doing? If it’s going to keep me inside doing nothing useful, it’s not good. It’s also not good if it takes over a task or skill that I value.
3). What does this technology do to my community? Is it bringing people into real relationships, is it sowing division? Is it radicalizing people, or creating mental health problems for people? If it’s destroying your community, to me it seems like after you know it causes those problems, to keep using the technology is in some sense not only being okay with it, but participating in those harms.
Alternate title: Acid Convinced Me I Am Exactly Who I Thought I Was
As the engaged and parasocially addicted reader I hope you are, you might remember that I’ve previously dabbled in mind-altering substances. Up until recently, however, my exposure to anything serious was strictly limited to psilocybin administered under clinical conditions.
I originally accepted the mushroom extract because I was depressed. It worked, in the sense that I spent the next four months and change feeling reliably not depressed. Psychiatry loves to invent tidy Greek and Latin wrappers for the chaotic human experience, and “euthymic” is the designated term here. It is a polite way of describing the baseline state the rest of us are desperately trying to claw our way back to. At the very least, it’s what I write down in my clinical notes unless you, the patient, are giving me serious cause for concern.
But the psilocybin eventually wore off, and the medical establishment won't just put you back in a clinical trial because you ask nicely. I was struggling badly again, so I turned to LSD.
My first foray was a trial run. The dealer advertised a 300 µg tab, which I conservatively cut in half. Going by subjective effect, along with the generally optimistic nature of street mathematics, it felt closer to 75-125 µg. There were no real visuals. The walls maintained their structural integrity, abstaining from the perceptible motion usually reserved for earthquakes or skyscrapers. I felt wired, more thoughtful, but mostly just myself.
Also, I was nauseous as all hell. This is to be expected from a chemical structurally adjacent to those that mushrooms evolved to keep annoying animals at bay. Unfortunately, much like with capsaicin, humans have proven to be deeply paradoxical creatures, eagerly seeking out the exact substances that burn their throats and make their stomachs churn.
Subjectively, that low-ish dose felt like a middle sibling between the sheer euphoria of MDMA and the hyper-focused disengagement of psilocybin. The only real downside was some manageable next-day dysphoria. Still, I was dissatisfied with the intensity. There was no immediate relief from the grey fog. I eyed the remaining half-tab, took extensive notes, and decided I was ready to do it again. And harder.
I did, and I almost regret it.
Set and Setting
A few days prior, I had received what could only be described as objectively good news. Not perfect news, but I felt a few British stone, or one Indian boulder, lighter. I genuinely felt eager to face the near future. Unlike my clinical trial, where the goal was to banish a treatment-resistant depression that had plagued me for a decade, this time I just wanted to make the happiness stick. If that didn't work, I'd settle for lasting contentment.
I’d learned my lessons from the trial run. I kept ondansetron on hand, a rationalist’s best friend for serotonin-receptor-induced nausea. I cleared my schedule. I found a quiet room, cranked up the aircon, turned down the lights, and queued up a good sound system. I took a full "300 µg" tab, expecting a real-world 200, and swallowed the anti-nausea medication alongside it. My two dogs, creatures of gentle breeding and absolute loyalty, snuggled in without complaint.
The effects arrived on schedule. The ondansetron performed a miracle, muting the jaw-tingling and ear-stuffiness associated with extreme serotonergic stimulation. The music sounded expansive; the colors popped. Two hours in, I decided I liked the trajectory enough to swallow the remnants of the first tab.
Then my friends arrived.
They were good friends, old friends, some I hadn’t seen in years. They knew about my situation, though they mostly weren’t psychonauts themselves. The most experienced among them had once trip-sat a guy who ended up defecating in a sink, an indignity I fully intended to spare them. I just wanted temporary companions, not babysitters. We’re getting older; we have jobs, wives, and kids. I also had family a phone call away, though I was resolved to only break that glass in an absolute emergency.
We laughed and caught up. The man I call my best friend dragged me out to look at nature, or at least the best shrubbery my suburban garden had to offer. It was a hot, sunny day. The leaves were very green. I was... whelmed. Very pretty leaves, sure, but ultimately just plant organs devoted to reasonably efficient photosynthesis.
Then, one of my friends surprised us by producing a joint of unusually high-quality weed. I dimly recalled reading that THC enhances the effects of psychedelics. I took a few measured puffs. I thought I was being sensible.
I was very wrong. Oh god. Oh fuck.
Before the marijuana, I had noticed a remarkably large pimple on my best friend’s forehead, but I hadn’t commented on it, because we’re men and it’s not my place to critique his skincare routine. I remember thinking it was remarkably large, but hey, it's his face and his business. Shortly after the marijuana, I looked at another buddy and noted that he had clearly been skipping leg day. His torso was swole; his legs were stick-thin. Taken aback, he explained he hadn’t been to the gym in years. I checked on my best friend, and found that the pimple was present, but not nearly as obtrusive. I squinted, recalibrated, and finally realized that visual proportions were simply no longer a metric my brain had a good handle on.
My friends looked alien. I knew this was an illusion, in the same way I knew my two dogs, currently busy barking at and humping each other, were not actual wolves. But the visuals and the noise were provoking a rising tide of anxiety.
I politely told them I needed to lie down. They didn't mind and kept chatting. Eventually, even the sound of their voices became too intrusive, and I had to ask them to leave.
I was alone, and I knew the weed had shifted gears. The subtle color-shimmering behind my eyelids had mutated into aggressive fractals. The walls swayed. My phone, my lifeline for timestamped notes, was folding and warping in a manner explicitly not covered by the manufacturer's warranty.
I knew I was fucked. I laid back and strapped in.
The Peak
I just kept falling. My body became leaden while my mind buzzed like a hive. The music transitioned from enjoyable into a tidal wave of synesthesia-adjacent masterpieces.
And then, I stopped thinking in words.
For the relentlessly analytical creature that I am, this is an unusual experience. The time-stamped notes ceased. Time itself meant very little. I felt my sense of self begin to fray at the edges, and I felt the universe, God, the Singularity, the collective oneness of all existence, attempting to force its way into my mind. I remember thinking, in totally alien non-words, that perhaps belief in a higher power wasn't so bad after all.
This seductive impulse didn’t whisper. It didn’t knock. It kicked down the door while I was on the shitter.
A part of me recoiled. The core of my identity rebelled. It is not a metaphor when I say I saw literal tendrils, soft white shoots, forcing their way into the cracks of my mind, offering me metaphysical solace and cosmic meaning. It is even less of a metaphor when I say that the little kernel of "me" that remained manifested a pair of scissors and snipped them away as fast as they sprouted. Buddy, I saw these things. Knowing you're hallucinating is not a robust cure for insanity.
Next, I saw myself as a knot, pulled taut and threatening to unravel under the tension of competing ontologies and bad epistemics. But it held firm. Even a heroic dose of mind-altering substances failed to break my stubborn, logically oriented materialism. Before the peak, I had written in my notes that any version of me returning from this trip with claims of metaphysical insight was, in a very real sense, no longer me. Now I had peaked, and my priors remained perfectly intact.
I saw God trying to fuck my brain through my eye socket, and my first instinct was to castrate him. Okay, this one is an actual metaphor, but it's one I came up with barely after the peak.
I realized then that there is an immutable, unshakable core beneath the masks I wear. Short of serious neurological degradation, I could trust myself to persevere through whatever slings and arrows life throws at me without losing my mind.
The Descent and the Meta-Self
Eventually, time began to make sense again. I became introspective. I felt sobriety slowly reconstructing itself from the wreckage of my mind, though it was a drawn-out process.
The peak was followed by a gentle, strange glide. I remember one version of me during the comedown who despaired of ever reaching sobriety, terrified of annihilation, begging not to die, terrified that his specific qualia would vanish into compressed digital journal notes and fading, imperfect memory.
The next iteration of me was highly meta, a journalist preoccupied with the act of journalism. He finally understood (in emotive terms, and not just intellectually as I usually do) that the entity I call “myself” is a gestalt, a series of 3D snapshots embedded in a hypercube stretching from the past to the infinite future. My life is a relay race, each past self rushing to pass the baton to the next. At times, this was a brisk walk, at other times, a sprint. During the trip, the poor bastards that are myself were rolling downhill in wheelchairs. But hey, they did their job. Now I do mine. The internal continuity I feel might lack objective grounding, but it’s a load-bearing construct nonetheless.
This meta-self chuckled at how pretentious I would find him once sober. He knew he’d be gone soon, and he wished me well. He observed that a mind without the filters and structures we rely on is fundamentally non-functional. Sanity is adaptive. He faded away with a smile, handing the wheel back to the next, slightly more sober guy. For what it's worth, I don't dislike him as much as he thought. I recognize that aspect of myself, and am mostly fond of it.
At some point, I remembered Scott Alexander’s short story Samsara. It is the one about the solitary materialist in a world where everyone else has succumbed to an Enlightenment memetic plague that genuinely makes them happier at the cost of their epistemics. I identified with and felt great empathy for the protagonist, but I also looked down on him. I had just seen the face of God and spat at it. I was perfectly content remaining in the cycles of Samsara, even if the upholstery needs some work.
My live notes from this exact moment read:
“I love feeling anti-Enlightened. Like that story Scott wrote, about the only materialist left on earth, who was tricked into becoming enlightened by virtue of his rejection of enlightenment. Hah. I'm still here. Bitch.”
Make of that what you will. I stand by it.
The Empty Quarry
The rest of the trip was an exercise in logistics and emotional housekeeping. I began to think and plan ahead, and regained opinions on the music, which gradually became less sublime. Along the way, I asked myself the questions I am usually afraid to answer out loud.
I noted my anxiety about the Singularity, which I believe is imminent on empirical grounds rather than faith. I fear death, and aging: for myself and those I love. I fear not being around to experience the end of the beginning. I want us to build heaven from the bones of an apathetic universe and forge something that cares out of dying stars. I genuinely think that is more likely than getting paperclipped, though not by a margin wide enough to bring me much peace.
I examined my anxieties about my career, my finances, and the lofty standards set by my parents. That I may or may not have the time to establish myself as a man, a husband and father, a writer, a doctor, before it becomes moot. I mused on how conflicted I feel about the trajectory of my life, even if I've usually lived up to my expectations and made my parents proud. I know I am not a bad person: I don't give my spare change away to save shrimp, but I do genuinely try to help. This was helpful to remember and also sincerely believe with most of my guard down.
I thought about my father, a surgeon who works harder than a human body should allow. He is not emotionally constipated; he cares deeply about my feelings. But quiet, relentless work is his love language. With tears drenching my cheeks, I realized he would work himself to death for us if he had to, and he’d die on his feet with a smile.
I don't want him to. I want to become so established that he can look at me, feel the safety of it, and finally slow down. At the same time, I notice I’ve inherited his drive. I work harder than I need to because I am already providing for the family I don't quite have yet: the wife yet unmarried, the kids yet unborn.
To my slight but enduring disappointment, it turns out my constant sober rumination and relentless introspection actually works. I already knew all of these answers. I could have produced them on minimal prodding when sober, even more easily if drunk and disinhibited. I have already done so, repeatedly.
Not even a heroic dose of LSD could help me mine for psychological insights that didn't exist; the quarry was already bare. I understand myself. I wouldn't trust any grand unified theories about the wider universe generated on acid, but I would have appreciated a slightly deeper glimpse into my own interiority. Like any good Bayesian, I am forced to treat this absence of evidence as evidence of absence. I am, almost certainly, exactly who I thought I was.
I wouldn’t ever like to be quite that high again. It felt dangerously close to bumping up against a glass ceiling of the psyche. I do intend to alter myself, physically and mentally, in the future, but psychedelics can only get you so far.
It is too early to tell if the contentment will stick, but the day after, I feel euthymic. It is quieter in my head. For someone with ADHD, this is a profound relief. As a delightful bonus, my usually omnipresent mild tinnitus seems to have vanished. If that proves permanent, the ordeal was worth it on those grounds alone.
I consider myself a better materialist for the experience. But note that I do not view the experience as self-flagellation, I didn't seek out... whatever the hell that was. The flagella of cosmic unity tried to force their way in, and I stayed the course. Can't let the team down; the ancestors and descendants are counting on me. If God or the administrators of the Ancestor Simulation want to talk to me that badly, they can send an email.
A Brief Note on Harm Reduction:
As clinical experiments go, my methodology was garbage. The clinician and the subject were the same person, and both of them were tripping balls in a manner they hadn’t realized was physically possible. I was already happier than I had been in a... very long time when I tried this. Nothing I have said or will say constitutes medical advice.
Do not take heroic doses of LSD unless you have a damn good reason. If you must, do not add cannabis unless you have meticulously researched the interactions. And if you do add cannabis, do not come crying to me when you find yourself castrating God with imaginary scissors to prevent Him from mind-fucking you. Or if you do get mind-fucked, for the matter, I will be sympathetic but less than useful. I've warned you. And I warn you again:
Some doors, once opened, cannot be closed until the half-life clears your system. Sometimes they stay ajar forever, no matter how hard you shove. From a mental health perspective, the evidence for psilocybin and ketamine is far more robust, and the latter is actually medically available in many jurisdictions.
I don't want to be this high ever again. But I am very glad to be back.
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