Alright, you magnificent, rage-fueled dumpster fires of human endurance. You’re back for another installment. Which means you either possess the unshakeable fortitude of a titanium-reinforced badger, or your therapist told you to seek “community engagement” and you figured this hell-blog was cheaper than a co-pay.
Or, perhaps, you simply enjoy watching the slow-motion car crash that is my daily existence — hoping for more blood, guts, and perfectly articulated rage.
Either way, welcome to the weekly therapy session for people whose primary life achievement is maintaining a clean criminal record despite overwhelming provocation.
Grab your poison of choice – because if it’s not whiskey by now, it’s probably a slightly radioactive cocktail of your own tears, existential dread, and the profound, bone-deep suspicion that the universe is actively fucking with you.
For the blissfully uninitiated stumbling into this particular corner of literary carnage, this is where we celebrate the microscopic victories that keep us out of orange jumpsuits.
Where we acknowledge that sometimes the difference between civilization and chaos is measured in the razor-thin margin of self-control that prevents us from responding to life’s relentless fuckery with actual, physical violence.
This isn’t a goddamn “uplifting journey of personal growth through adversity” blog.
This is a detonation.
A public service announcement delivered with the impact of a fucking meteor strike.
I don’t tiptoe. I drop verbal molotovs.
Together, we drag the raw, bleeding truth of grief out of the shadows and spray-paint its ugly face for the world to choke on.
This is the unholy, sacred, profane scripture of the daily, microscopic, often unhinged victories in the ongoing war for your sanity, your humanity, and your right to not spontaneously combust in a public space:
“Dear Diary, Today I Didn’t Commit Murder. Progress.”
If that title just sent a jolt of deeply unsettling yet profoundly validating recognition through your scorched nervous system, then congratulations — you’re still gloriously, defiantly, probably dangerously here.
And you’re in precisely the right damn place.
Because this week, the universe has decided to abandon all pretense of subtlety and is now actively, overtly, and with a breathtaking lack of self-awareness, gaslighting the living fuck out of me.
And frankly, my internal scream room has started issuing subpoenas.
My therapists are probably taking bets on when I’ll finally snap.
And the answer is: not today, motherfucker. Not today.
This week’s fresh hell? The unholy marriage of grief-ravaged cognitive dysfunction and the soul-crushing nightmare that is social media.
Because apparently, the universe decided that navigating loss while your brain operates like a drunk toddler with a concussion wasn’t quite challenging enough.
No, we also need to be constantly bombarded with the curated, filtered, aggressively optimized lives of every person we’ve ever met — complete with inspirational quotes that make you want to set fire to motivational posters and happiness updates that feel like personal fuckin’ attacks from the cosmos itself.
So brace yourselves, fellow survivors of the emotional apocalypse.
We’re diving headfirst into the digital cesspool where grief meets algorithm, and sanity goes to die a violent death.
THE GREAT SOCIAL MEDIA AMBUSH: WHEN YOUR PHONE BECOMES A WEAPONIZED, SOUL-SUCKING, DIGITAL TORMENT DEVICE DESIGNED BY SADISTIC ALGORITHMS
Dear Diary,
Today, I survived the unholy, evil onslaught of social media, that omnipresent, glowing little portal of curated misery, unsolicited life updates, and algorithmic sadism.
Today, my phone — that deceptively innocent rectangle of glass and circuits — tried—nay, actively plotted—to fuckin’ destroy me.
And yet, despite the overwhelming odds, the goddamn notifications piling up like a digital avalanche of existential terror, the passive-aggressive “recommended posts” from people I haven’t thought about since the Paleolithic era, I lived.
I did not throw the phone across the room.
I did not summon a black hole in the living room.
I did not hack into the mainframe of Instagram to erase humanity’s collective smugness with a single keystroke.
Progress.
Algorithms aren’t subtle. They watch, they calculate, and they ensure that every memory triggers an emotional grenade, every interaction with your feed is a shiv to the chest.
My only defenses are muting, blocking, and imagining their servers catching fire in a slow, cathartic blaze.
It started innocuously enough.
A harmless little buzz.
A gentle vibration from the glowing siren that is my pocket.
“Just a notification,” it whispered. Nothing serious, probably.
Haha. Hahahahahaha.
Oh, sweet naive past-me.
By the time I looked down, I had been ambushed by a parade of curated lives more perfect, more polished, more aggressively cheerful than the last season of a dystopian reality show.
And my grief-addled brain? My exquisite, sophisticated, finely tuned Grief Brain?
It immediately started comparing, evaluating, and cataloging all the ways my life is currently a smoldering, post-apocalyptic hellscape in which my only companion is a judgmental dog and the lingering scent of existential fuckin’ despair.
There’s Serotonin Sarah, whose entire feed now consists of “perfect life” highlight reels — home renovations, artisanal bread experiments, morning yoga at sunrise that looks suspiciously like she’s auditioning for a Pantheon of Cheerful Gods — and captions that whisper venomously:
“Grateful for every moment, love your journey.”
Oh, Serotonin Sarah, you caffeinated harbinger of hell — if only you knew my journey involves a daily negotiation with the void, trying to prevent it from consuming my entire sense of self while simultaneously brewing coffee strong enough to punch the void in the teeth.
Then there’s Motivational Mike, who has apparently become the human embodiment of a motivational quote poster.
His latest masterpiece reads:
“Obstacles are just opportunities in disguise. Keep pushing!”
Listen, Motivational Mike, I don’t care if obstacles are opportunities.
Today, my obstacle was the simple act of scrolling without spontaneously combusting into tears of rage, nostalgia, and soul-deep despair.
If I “keep pushing” any harder, I might accidentally push my coffee mug off the counter and start a chemical chain reaction of doom involving my kitchen floor, three decorative candles, and my last ounce of patience.
Oh, and the ads. God, the fucking ads.
Nothing like being mid-scroll, eyes red from crying into a pillow for thirty seconds straight, only to have some algorithmic monster shove a “10 Steps to Happiness” pop-up in my face like it personally knows I’m fragile and might just need a commercial miracle.
Yes, please, show me how to “manifest abundance” while my soul quietly rots in the corner.
I’ve always wanted to learn how to vibrate my way out of existential despair.
How lucky of you to notice.
Every week brings new, grotesque delights.
One day it’s “Couples Getaways” ads — because nothing says sensitivity like reminding me I can’t share a weekend with the person I lost.
Another week, it’s “Grief Counseling: 10% Off!” because yes, what my shattered soul really needs is a coupon for emotional labor.
And the influencers — oh, the influencers — they turn devastation into an aesthetic, a lifestyle choice, with tear-streaked selfies and rings of ethereal light around their sad little faces while giving lectures about journaling.
Darling, I have a notebook: it’s called “Reasons I Haven’t Thrown Someone Out a Window Yet,” filled with very specific names.
And just when I thought I could no longer be tormented, the notifications began cascading like a goddamn fire hose.
Birthday reminders. Event invites. People posting brunch.
Brunch.
As if brunch, with its perfect avocado toast and artisanal, ethically sourced lattes, wasn’t already a silent indictment of my current emotional capabilities.
I stared at the photos and briefly considered arson.
Or relocating to a cave with no Wi-Fi, no cell service, and a strong, secure lock on the door labeled “Do Not Disturb Humanity.”
My internal scream room began hammering a new rhythm:
THWAP THWAP THWAP — a combination of rage drumming and small-scale ritual sacrifice to the gods of “Why am I still alive?”
By the time I reached the comment sections, my grief-wrecked brain was fully, irrevocably, hilariously fried.
A single word could set off the emotional equivalent of a nuclear warhead in my chest.
“Blessed,” “grateful,” “manifesting,” “positivity.”
The words became daggers, the carefully curated emojis became torpedoes, and I was trapped in a digital battlefield with no tactical advantage — only my whiskey, my diary, and the faint but persistent hope that someday, the algorithms will realize they’ve underestimated my capacity for rage-fueled resilience.
Actual Outcome:
I managed to scroll without obliterating my phone.
I resisted commenting a string of keyboard-profanities so creative it would have landed me in a federal witness protection program.
I unfollowed three people in rapid succession like a silent, vengeful ninja, leaving a trail of algorithmic confusion in my wake.
I cried once, twice, then swore loudly enough to wake the dog from his existential nap.
And I survived.
I did not commit physical or digital murder, though the temptation was staggering.
Fuckin' progress.
Diary Entry:
“Dear Diary, today I endured the Great Social Media Ambush. My soul was mocked, my grief compared unfavorably to brunch photos, and my internal scream room achieved a new high score in decibels. Patrick would have laughed, probably at my sheer determination to not punch a Wi-Fi router, and then handed me a whiskey with a smirk that said, ‘You’re doing fine, dumbass.’ And maybe he would have added, ‘Also, set the algorithms on fire.’ I miss him. I miss him a lot. Progress. Fuckin’ Progress.”
THE COMMENT SECTION GLADIATOR ARENA: WHERE EMPATHY GOES TO DIE, AND HUMAN DECENCY TAKES A PERMANENT FUCKIN’ VACATION
Dear Diary,
Welcome to the digital Gladiator Arena, that treacherous, fluorescent-lit digital Colosseum where empathy goes to die, and civility has long since been sold to the highest bidder.
It’s a place where logical thought is a goddamn novelty, and the instinct to punch your screen with both hands becomes a legitimate coping strategy.
And me? I wandered in fully aware, but blissfully fuckin’ underprepared for the carnage that awaited.
My only weapons: a deeply rooted asshole sense of humor, an enormous cup of bitter coffee, and the sheer stubbornness of someone who has survived the relentless, unholy tirade of the universe’s grief-induced fuckery thus far.
It started innocuously, like all ambushes do.
A “discussion” thread beneath a sad little article about loss and human resilience.
Sounds safe, right?
Hahahahahaha.
Sweet, naive diary… nothing is safe.
I scroll, carefully, like a tightrope walker balancing over a pit of vipers and active landmines, only to find that every comment is a festering petri dish of outrage, unsolicited advice, and the casual cruelty of people who have never experienced loss but believe themselves fully qualified to grade it.
There’s Toxic Tony, of course — Tony always shows up. Every platform, every thread, as inevitable as death and taxes.
“Just be positive!” he types, as if positivity were a switch in my ribcage, ready to be flipped.
“Think of the happy memories!” he adds, fingers likely coated in smugness and chewed-up optimism.
Tony doesn’t understand that my happy memories are now dynamite, waiting to explode if I allow the nostalgia to mingle with the unbearable weight of absence.
Tony is like a kindly bomb technician, except he’s dropped a grenade in the middle of my chest and smiles as if it’s a gift.
Then there’s Psychoanalyzing Patty, who apparently has made it her life’s mission to diagnose everyone in a five-mile radius of the internet.
“You need to let go,” she types, accompanied by a string of emojis that read like the hieroglyphics of some ancient, cruel civilization.
Let go?
Patty, my life is now a juggling act performed on the edge of a volcano, every day a precarious balance of existing, surviving, and not hurling household items at innocent bystanders.
Letting go is a skill I can barely conceptualize, let alone execute, without my internal scream room going full demolition derby.
And the trolls — oh, the trolls.
Keyboard warriors with PhDs in misery, dissecting grief like it’s an Olympic sport.
“Crying during sunsets is inefficient!”
“Sadness on Wednesdays is suboptimal!”
I want to mail them a manual:
Step 1: Do Not Be a Social Media Asshole.
Step 2: Repeat Step 1 until enlightenment.
Step 3: Accept that life is a dumpster fire and leave me the fuck alone.
And, of course, the lurkers.
The silent, invisible witnesses who gleefully watch the chaos unfold and then decide to “like” the cruelest, most passive-aggressive comments with the satisfaction of a vampire counting coffins.
They are the unseen jury, ready to condemn you to eternal digital torment while sipping iced lattes and pretending the world isn’t a giant dumpster fire.
My Internal Scream Room went into overdrive.
The rage starts in my toes.
Actually, that’s a lie — it starts somewhere deeper, in whatever part of my soul houses the primal scream that’s been building since I first realized that happiness is apparently something other people just… have.
It crawls up through my nervous system like molten lava, filling every synapse with the burning question:
“WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK IS WRONG WITH THESE PEOPLE?”
The existential goddamn audacity of people who genuinely believe that their half-assed advice is a panacea for the gaping void left in my heart.
Are they all collectively brain-damaged?
Have they never experienced a single moment of genuine human suffering?
Are they pod people? Aliens? Government experiments in aggressive positivity?
Because I’m sitting here trying to remember how to operate a washing machine while they’re out there “manifesting abundance” and “choosing joy” like it’s a goddamn menu option at a restaurant I was never invited to.
The absolute fucking audacity of these people to exist in a state of contentment while I’m over here treating basic hygiene like an Olympic sport is staggering.
They’re posting sunset photos with captions about “gratitude” while I’m grateful I managed to put on matching socks.
They’re sharing relationship milestones while I’m having full conversations with a houseplant because it’s the most emotionally available relationship in my life.
Actual Outcome:
I typed a comment.
No, wait. Scratch that — I typed several comments with precision, fury, and an ironic flair that would make a seasoned troll blush.
I deployed sarcasm like a heat-seeking missile and sprinkled in some subtle existential dread, just enough to disturb the equilibrium of the gladiatorial arena without triggering full-on digital warfare.
I backed out, breathless, heart pounding, a little exhilarated that I had survived the melee without throwing my phone into traffic or physically assaulting someone through the screen.
Diary Entry:
“Dear Diary, today I survived the gladiator arena of comments. My heart rate has somewhat returned to human levels. My dignity is mostly intact, though I may have used every ounce of smartass knowledge I own. Patrick would have laughed at the stupidity, probably added a perfectly timed insult, and then hopped on his motorcycle to disappear into the sunset while the algorithms quaked in terror. I miss him. I miss his precision, his timing, his uncanny ability to make any fight, online or off, a masterpiece of chaos and control. Progress. Spectacularly calculated, brutal, gloriously human progress.”
THE HUMBLE BRAG OLYMPICS: WHERE EVERYONE’S WINNING EXCEPT YOU, AND YOUR GRIEF BRAIN DIDN’T EVEN QUALIFY FOR THE GODDAMN PRELIMS
Dear Diary,
Today I survived yet another round of the Humble Brag Olympics, the perpetual global competition where every single person I know seems to be competing for gold in the category of “Most Smug Yet Casually Self-Deprecating Achievement Post.”
... I didn’t make the team.
Hell, I didn’t even get a participation ribbon.
Meanwhile, my event consisted of “Did Not Scream Into the Fridge for Forty-Five Minutes Straight” and “Successfully Showered Without Crying.”
Both were personal bests. Both got me jack shit on the medal podium.
There they are: the grieffluencers.
They cry pretty, journal aesthetically, and sip from their matching mugs of turmeric tea while monologuing about resilience.
Their hashtags read like Mad Libs from hell: #HealingJourney #PainIntoPower #SadButMakeItCute
Meanwhile, I’m sitting here congratulating myself for eating a cold Pop-Tart in bed without choking on it.
Truly award-winning shit.
Grief brain doesn’t do competition.
It doesn’t care if Susan found enlightenment on her morning yoga mat or if Chad turned his dead cat into a memoir-slash-merch-line.
Grief brain just wants to survive Tuesday without homicide.
And yet, the Humble Brag Olympics rage on, handing out gold medals for curated suffering while the rest of us stare at the scoreboard thinking, “Yeah, no thanks, I didn’t train for this event.”
And then there are those posts.
You know the posts I’m talking about.
They pop up with clockwork precision, right when you’ve finally managed to drink your coffee without wanting to bite the mug in half.
“So blessed to finally close on our dream home! Hard work pays off!”
screams Manifestation Mandy, whose teeth are so white in her selfie I half-suspect she photoshopped them directly from a toothpaste commercial.
Mandy has a husband, two golden retrievers, and apparently, the ability to manifest mortgages with nothing but Pinterest boards and sheer audacity.
I, meanwhile, have a pile of laundry in the corner so menacing it could qualify as a new species.
Or take Marathon Matt, who “humbled” the internet today with:
“Never thought I’d be running marathons at 35! Just finished my seventh! #grateful.”
Matt, my guy, I haven’t run since the Bush administration.
My cardio is limited to panic attacks and the occasional sprint to stop my coffee from spilling on my laptop.
If there’s ever a race called “The 400-Meter Cry While Carrying Groceries Up the Stairs,” then sure, I’ll see you at the goddamn finish line.
Until then, kindly shove your medals up the algorithm that keeps shoving you in my face.
And don’t even get me started on the career flexes.
Nothing hits quite like sitting on your couch, in your grief blanket, staring at the ceiling for the fourth consecutive hour, only to see someone announce:
“Beyond excited to be starting my new dream job as Director of Something Vaguely Important at TechCorp! Hard work, dedication, and a positive mindset got me here!”
Cool, LinkedIn Lucy.
Hard work and dedication got you a corner office; grief got me a borderline feral sleep schedule and the ability to cry so silently in public restrooms that even the hand dryers don’t pick it up.
Medal-worthy? Absolutely. Recognized by the judges? Not a goddamn chance.
The worst, though — the absolute, unforgivable sin — is the combo post.
You know the one.
The new house, the marathon, the promotion, the perfect dog, all wrapped into one Instagram reel set to a Taylor Swift song.
It’s not just bragging. It’s performance art.
It’s the Cirque du Soleil of smugness.
And there I am, scrolling, clutching my whiskey like a lifeline, muttering, “Cool. I brushed my teeth today. Where’s my fucking standing ovation?”
My Internal Scream Room responded accordingly.
Imagine an Olympic commentator narrating a synchronized meltdown routine:
“Ah yes, a flawless execution of the Silent Rage Cry while simultaneously doomscrolling through ten consecutive success posts. Look at that form! The precision! The absolute despair! 9.5 from the German judge!”
Actual Outcome:
I did not torch my phone.
I resisted the urge to reply with:
“Congrats, Mandy, may your dream home come with plumbing issues and a poltergeist.”
I did not type “fuck off, Matt” under the marathon photo, though the temptation was exquisite.
Instead, I sat in my arena of quiet chaos, whispered a prayer to the god of spite, and unfollowed three people in rapid succession.
Progress.
My medals are internal. My trophies are invisible.
My coach is a bottle of whiskey and a playlist full of angry 70s music.
Diary Entry:
“Dear Diary, today I survived the Humble Brag Olympics. I did not win, I did not place, but I did not set the village on fire either. Patrick would’ve hated every goddamn second of this — he would’ve rolled his eyes, cracked a dickhead joke about starting a counter-event called the ‘Fuck It Decathlon,’ and then pulled me into a bear hug so solid it could’ve been classified as life support. I miss him. I miss the way he cut through this kind of performative bullshit with a single sentence and made me laugh so hard I forgot to be angry. Progress. Bitter, sarcastic, but still progress.”
THE ANNIVERSARY MINEFIELD: WHEN ALGORITHMS BECOME GRIEF TERRORISTS, AND YOUR HEART IS HELD HOSTAGE BY A FUCKING FACEBOOK MEMORY
Dear Diary,
The universe’s favorite joke? Facebook Memories.
Every time I think I’ve built some shaky scaffolding of stability, the algorithm strolls in with a smug little grin and detonates it.
“Here’s a photo of you two smiling on this exact day five years ago!”
Thanks, Zuck, truly the emotional terrorist of our generation.
Enter the anniversary minefield, that sadistic stretch of time where every algorithm in existence transforms into a grief terrorist with a grudge.
My phone, my laptop, even my goddamn smartwatch — all of them collude against me like a synchronized firing squad of digital demons.
Apparently, the machines have decided my emotional stability is optional, and “On This Day” reminders are the perfect little grenades to lob at my unsuspecting ass.
It starts with the deceptively innocent push notification:
“Relive your memories!”
No thank you, Satan’s intern, I was actually busy trying to keep myself upright in the present.
But no, the app insists.
“Here’s a smiling picture of you and Patrick from exactly two years ago! Remember joy? Remember laughter? Remember when your world didn’t implode like a meth lab explosion in a tornado?”
Cue the detonation.
Instant flashback. Heart in my throat. Tears in my eyes before my brain even has time to decide if crying is on today’s schedule.
Suddenly I’m transported back to the exact second the photo was taken: his hand on my back, his laugh booming like it owned the whole damn room, my face lit up with that pure, stupid, incandescent happiness that makes you want to punch a wall now.
And the algorithm?
It pats itself on the back like it just did me a favor, like it delivered inspiration instead of stabbing me directly in the sternum with a sharpened nostalgia spike.
And then the “celebratory” reminders.
“Four years ago today, you checked into your favorite restaurant together!”
Oh, did I, Facebook?
Thank you for reminding me that the table where we sat is still there, probably hosting some happy couple who didn’t get sucker-punched by the universe.
Should I go there, order the same drink, and set the tablecloth on fire for closure?
Or is that frowned upon by polite society?
Meanwhile, Instagram’s got its own sadistic flair.
“Here’s a reel of your happiest moments set to upbeat music!”
Listen, Instagram, if you don’t stop pairing my trauma with the Chainsmokers, I will personally code a virus to delete you from every server on Earth.
The cruelest part?
The algorithm doesn’t know the difference between nostalgia and napalm.
To it, a memory is just content — pixels, metadata, engagement potential.
To me, it’s a live grenade disguised as a heartwarming scrapbook.
Every click, every scroll, every swipe risks detonating another explosive reminder that Patrick isn’t here to laugh with me, to mock the stupidity, to call me a dumbass when I spiral.
Actual Outcome:
I did not hurl my phone into oncoming traffic.
I did not smash my laptop with the kind of primal scream usually reserved for horror movies.
I ugly-cried, I cursed every coder in Silicon Valley, and I shut down the apps with the precision of a bomb technician defusing live explosives.
I also poured whiskey in my coffee and called it “multitasking.”
Survival points unlocked. Progress, bitches.
Diary Entry:
“Dear Diary, today the algorithms held me hostage with memories that cut deeper than knives. I threw my phone across the room, then apologized to it because even inanimate objects don’t deserve the rage Zuckerberg caused. I survived the minefield, though I may have lost three hours of my day to crying, cursing, and plotting elaborate revenge against the digital overlords. Patrick would’ve shaken his head, called Facebook a ‘surveillance-state babysitter,’ and told me to go outside, touch grass, and flip off the sky. I miss him. I miss the way he grounded me when grief detonated at random. Progress. Painful, messy, whiskey-spiked progress.”
THE PRODUCTIVITY PORN PLAGUE: WHEN SELF-IMPROVEMENT BECOMES SELF-FLAGELLATION, AND “HUSTLE CULTURE” CAN SUCK MY STILL-BEATING HEART
Dear Diary,
Today the universe decided to slap me across the face with a plague more contagious than the flu and more irritating than a Karen at customer service: productivity porn.
You know the type — those smug little corner-of-the-internet assholes who think the cure for grief, despair, and existential collapse is a color-coded planner and a 5 AM wake-up routine.
Apparently, because I survived another day without committing felony-level violence, society now expects me to optimize my life.
To become a well-oiled machine of “progress” and “healing” and “personal growth.”
Motherfucker, I’m lucky if I remember to put pants on before 3 PM, and now you want me to start journaling about “intentional mornings” and “gratitude practices”?
Let me tell you what I’m grateful for: that I haven’t committed arson against the smug fuckers selling this shit like snake oil at a 19th-century carnival.
It starts innocently enough.
I’m scrolling (always my first mistake) and stumble across some influencer beaming like they just swallowed the sun, chirping:
“My grief journey taught me the power of discipline! I healed by waking up at 4:30, meditating for 90 minutes, then running an ultra-marathon while listening to podcasts about Stoic philosophy!"
Congratulations, Corporate Chuck.
Meanwhile, I consider it a goddamn triumph if I manage to wash my hair before it develops sentience and applies for emancipation.
Those endless “hacks” they keep trying to shove down your throat?
Bullet journals! Vision boards! Twelve-step morning routines that require a NASA-level mission checklist!
Breathwork workshops that cost more than my rent!
It’s like the entire self-help industry is one massive circle jerk designed to guilt you into thinking your grief is a personal failing instead of a cataclysmic, soul-crushing event.
Here’s the part that really sends me spiraling: the productivity porn pushers frame it like you’re failing your dead person if you don’t become a kale-fueled, sunrise-worshipping powerhouse of optimized grief.
“Don’t you think Patrick would want you to live your best life?”
Listen, fuckwad, Patrick would want me to eat tacos, ride motorcycles, and occasionally nap like a feral dog.
He wouldn’t want me to spreadsheet my healing journey like I’m filing quarterly tax returns for my goddamn soul.
My Internal Scream Room:
[Cue the sound of papers being shredded at an industrial scale, mixed with the guttural roar of a demon gargling gravel.]
“Self-flagellation disguised as self-improvement? Fuck you.
Healing is not a goddamn productivity metric.
I am not a quarterly earnings report.
You can shove your ‘rise and grind’ agenda so far up your ass it comes out color-coded in pastel highlighters."
Actual Outcome:
I did not buy the $59 digital productivity course.
I did not download the habit tracker app that pings you like a parole officer every time you fail to meditate.
I instead watched three hours of trash television, ate leftover pizza, and counted that as peak performance.
Surviving grief is the work.
Anything else is extra credit.
Diary Entry:
“Dear Diary, today I resisted the cult of hustle that tried to convince me grief could be conquered with bullet journaling and kale smoothies. Patrick would’ve laughed his ass off at the idea of me doing sunrise yoga, probably while drinking whiskey out of a coffee mug and muttering about capitalism ruining everything. I miss that bastard. And his refusal to give a single fuck about optimization. Progress. Lazy, unapologetic, glorious progress.”
THE GRATITUDE GESTAPO: WHEN POSITIVE THINKING TURNS INTO A CULT-LEVEL HOSTAGE SITUATION
Welcome to the shiny rainbow-sprinkled gulag of grief culture: the Gratitude Gestapo.
The sunshine-shitting overlords of “good vibes only” culture.
Every motherfucker with a Pinterest board and a “Live Laugh Love” sign thinks they’ve cracked the code to human suffering.
The ones who act like if you don’t end every catastrophic life event with a Hallmark-card silver lining, you’re basically committing an emotional hate crime.
They haven’t.
But that won’t stop them from aggressively policing your vibes like jackbooted officers in the Ministry of Toxic Positivity.
“Ohhh, you lost the love of your life? Have you tried being grateful for the sunshine?”
Bitch, the only thing I’m grateful for is that I haven’t throat-punched you yet.
“Gratitude heals all wounds.”
Gratitude heals all wounds?
Cool, let me just thank the universe really fucking hard until it un-kills my fiancé.
Oh wait — it didn’t work?
Guess I need to be more thankful for the moldy coffee I spilled on myself this morning.
That’ll fix it.
It’s like they’ve taken toxic positivity, mixed it with fascist tendencies, and built a cult where the only acceptable emotions are rainbows, butterflies, and whatever MLM candle they’re currently pushing on Facebook Marketplace.
If you express an ounce of rage, bitterness, or — god forbid — real human grief, the Gratitude Gestapo shows up with their inspirational quote bayonets ready to stab you with some Pinterest-worthy nonsense.
And don’t even try venting online.
Post something raw and ugly, and the Gratitude Gestapo will swarm your comments section faster than ants on a dropped popsicle.
They’ll toss out lines like:
• “Remember, everything happens for a reason.” (Yeah, the reason is people die, Blessed Brenda. It’s called biology, not divine scheduling.)
• “Just be thankful for the memories!” (Oh, perfect. I’ll eat those for dinner since apparently, grief suppresses my appetite for actual food.)
• “Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened.” (That’s not wisdom, Live-Laugh-Linda, it’s a goddamn Dr. Seuss rhyme. Sit down.)
The Gratitude Gestapo thrives on shame.
You say you’re struggling? Tut-tut, soldier. Think about starving children in insert-random-country.
You admit you’re angry? Tsk, tsk. But what about your blessings?
It’s like being waterboarded with a Hobby Lobby catalog.
Meanwhile, real grievers are out here doing mental gymnastics:
“Okay, I’m supposed to feel grateful… but if I’m grateful, am I betraying my grief? And if I’m not grateful enough, does that make me a bitter asshole?”
It’s like emotional Twister, and guess what: you always end up face-down on the mat, hating yourself.
Now I’m not saying gratitude is evil — it’s fine, in moderation.
Gratitude is not the enemy. Gratitude is fine when it’s organic.
When you randomly realize, mid-ugly-cry, that you’re glad you shared a dumb inside joke or a pizza at 2 AM with the person you lost.
That kind of gratitude feels human.
It breathes with you. It hurts with you.
But gratitude doesn’t cancel grief.
You can be thankful for what you had and still want to smash a decorative “Live, Laugh, Love” sign over someone’s head.
But when people weaponize it, it becomes just another way to invalidate grief.
They demand we slap a fake smile on our trauma and call it healing.
Nah.
Some days, gratitude can take a damn number and wait in line behind rage, sorrow, and wanting to scream into the void like a banshee.
But both can absolutely coexist.
What doesn’t coexist is me and the Gratitude Gestapo in the same goddamn room, because if one more person tells me to “shift my perspective,” I will shift it — directly onto their face with my fist.
Gratitude should be an invitation, not a fucking court order.
Diary Entry:
"Dear Diary, today I survived another round with the Gratitude Gestapo and somehow managed to keep my hands to myself. I didn’t commit homicide in the name of realism, even though every cell in my body wanted to suplex someone through a “Good Vibes Only” wall decal. Patrick would’ve laughed his ass off, told me to “let the glitter cult eat itself,” and handed me a drink. I miss that level of perspective. I miss him. Progress. Seething, slightly unhinged progress. But still fuckin' progress."
THIS WEEK’S VICTORY: STILL NOT A FELON
Dear Diary,
Another week, another circus of grief brain versus the world.
Social media ambushes, troll coliseums, humble brag tournaments, algorithmic landmines, productivity cultists, and gratitude fascists—all lining up like it’s some demented carnival and I’m the unwilling clown.
And yet—look at us.
Still here. Still upright. Still breathing.
Still stubbornly refusing to become a Netflix true crime documentary.
We didn’t stab anyone in a Trader Joe’s parking lot, didn’t frisbee our phones into traffic, didn’t torch a yoga studio, and didn’t throat-punch Karen for her third “live, laugh, love” meme of the week.
We resisted. Barely. But we did.
Here’s the deal: survival doesn’t look like Instagram wants it to.
It’s not inspirational, it doesn’t smell like lavender oil, and it sure as hell isn’t wrapped in “good vibes only” bullshit.
It looks like both of us showing up with eye bags, caffeine jitters, gallows humor, and the mutual relief of knowing our criminal records remain spotless—so far.
That’s progress, whether the world likes it or not.
So yeah—progress, bitches.
Ours. Yours. Mine.
The whole scrappy, rage-fueled tribe of us who keep choosing not to light the world on fire even when it begs for it.
That’s victory.
See you next week, unless I finally cave and start that cult of grieving assholes where the only commandments are “don’t be a dick” and “don’t post grief quotes in Papyrus font.”
We’re still standing. Still swearing. Still free.
And for now? Still not felons.
That's goddamn progress.
dear diary, HOLY SH*T THEY'RE GONE, no bullshit grief, survival guide, uncensored grief, unfiltered grief
https://cassandracrossno.com/dear-diary-four/