A MetaPost About Posting

I deleted my instagram, my twitter, and my bluesky account is bad methadone.

I’ve not blogged a thing since January, which itself was just a reposting of my 2025 Letterboxd reviews (well, outside of the Cymru election blog that occasioned the thoughts that then occasioned this post).

I basically write one monthly entry to myself in my physical journal, just an accounting of the horrible, weird shit that’s happened since the last check-in.

This Trump 2 era has more or less overloaded my analytical capacities, made me into a dead-eyed apathy case. It’s too much, too fast. In the drafts folder, I have half-written posts about Minnesota (the ICE invasion, not the humbling of the Nuggets; on that topic: fuck you, Minnesota), the Iran war, Alex Karp, the higher cultural literacy of the late millennial cohort, and the eventual fate of most involved, active leftists (retreat, insularity, siloing, etc etc etc). None of it seems like it’s worth the thought or the effort.

Maybe this is just the hypernormalisation thesis made material, a semi-intentional torrent of idiocy designed to make me react this way. Maybe this is getting older, naturally losing the energy needed to stay informed and incandescent at the shit you see. Maybe this is my half-joking “this is just the 1930s and we’re just the 4th Reich” thesis deciding that I’m less funny and more clairvoyant. Doesn’t really matter the “why” of it all (another sign I’m losing “it,” as pre-2020 Trevor would slap the shit out of someone claiming that the “why” doesn’t matter–but no matter), what matters is that it feels too fast and too stupid to keep up with, let alone fight.

So, the entries and the posts and the scrawlings have slowed. Good. What the fuck do I have to say?

I don’t think there’s a neat way to wrap this one up. Here’s a Glenn Danzig song.