I’m a YouTube addict.

I admit it.

Hand me a doughnut.

If my relationships with alcohol, nicotine, and marijuana have taught me anything, it’s that I’m not a moderation person.

On the spectrum of vices, though, I suppose YouTube sits somewhere near the more harmless end of things you could be spending too much time on. But I’m starting to resent it nonetheless.

Addiction is usually defined by three things: an inability to regulate consumption, a growing tolerance (meaning you need more to feel the same), and a negative impact on broader areas of life.

And I’m beginning to sense the old familiar pattern taking hold.

At first, I couldn’t believe it. This incredible place where I could learn the secrets of the universe, watch a kingfisher dive in 4K slow-motion, or get a crash course on Schopenhauer—all neatly packaged into five-minute videos by helpful amateurs.

If you’re anything like me, when you discover something shiny, new, and moreish, it quickly becomes ubiquitous.

You can’t believe your luck. You evangelize about it to your friends. You gorge yourself, delighted. You wonder how you ever lived without it.

“I don’t watch mainstream TV anymore,” I’d announce smugly to anyone within earshot. “I only watch YouTube now.”

Fast forward a few years of over-use, and I’m firmly on the other side of that mountain. The heady, sunlit upland has given way to a colder, darker place. There are brambles and broken glass. And people I don’t really want to be hiking with.

My attention span has been ground down to a pathetic little nub that twitches and moans after about 90 seconds. And I don’t bother with the meatier, more educational stuff anymore—it doesn’t do it for me. My tastes have moved up the shelf. Now, it’s harder liquor I need.

For me, that’s analysis and reaction. It’s no longer enough to watch the thing—I need to watch people dissecting the thing in increasingly melodramatic ways.

There’s a cast of familiar cultural commentators now: some quietly smug, others downright aggressive. I catch myself watching them argue about unisex bathrooms while being egged on by Piers Morgan—a man I’d normally cross the street to avoid.

Sometimes, I dive into even more facile territory: the strange, self-consuming world of YouTube creators. Men who look younger and younger the older I get, reacting to things I don’t care about, then reacting to each other’s reactions in a warped hall of digital mirrors.

This has hit new heights since the re-election of Donald Trump. The actual political fact is an empty whisper now—a black hole around which endless speculation, soul-searching, and outrage swirl in an infinite miasma.

I don’t even know what I think anymore. I wake up sweating in the night, screaming the word “tariffs.”

And I’m not even from America.

It’s not just political, though. The culture itself is drowning in analysis.

I suppose it makes sense. The number of people with the imagination, means, and ambition to actually create culture has always been limited. But the number of people who can throw together YouTube montages, narrate back-bedroom video essays, or start a podcast complaining about Hollywood’s “woke mind-virus” is now effectively limitless.

Even music isn’t safe.

I don’t really listen to music anymore. I mainly listen to people talking about music. And occasionally, people talking about people talking about music.

Today, I read a clickbait article summarizing a YouTube interview I’d already seen where David Gilmour talked about his new album.

I haven’t listened to the album.

And it’s no wonder—engaging with actual art is a kind of sacrifice.

It requires a few things of you: First, you have to risk not enjoying it. Second, you have to commit time—more than the 30 seconds I’m used to. And third, you run the risk of it making you think or, worse, feel.

Much easier to stay numb. To let the visual pointlessness cascade over you like some tepid shower of nothing.

I’m writing this, I suppose, as a confession. Pointing it out to myself as much as to you.

Because that’s the first step in recovery: admitting you have a problem.

Next comes the hard part: doing something about it.

So I’m committing to start ingesting culture again, daily. Maybe you could help me?

If you’ve been reading these little missives for a while, you probably have a decent sense of who I am and what I might be into.

If you’d be up for spamming me with albums I should hear, painters I should Google, films I should watch, or novels I should read, I’m all ears. Just hit reply.

Lots of you already do, and I’m continually grateful for the inspiration.

The egoist in me also suspects this mailing list is bursting with people of great taste.

I look forward to hearing your suggestions.

In the meantime…

Keep dreaming,

Rob