I, Elon Musk, Will Pay Forty-Seven Dollars to Anyone Who Can Figure Out What’s Wrong with Me
“Musk’s Super PAC Offers $47 to Those Who Help It Find Trump Voters”
— New York Times, 10/7/24
Please help. My brain is like the Cybertruck nav system. I know something’s wrong there, but no one can figure it out.
I’ve read all the psychology books, but none of them address desperately needing the validation of someone named “Catturd.”
Any therapists out there? What’s the name of the syndrome that causes you to turn into the MyPillow guy?
When I watch the movie Tremors, why do I identify with the worms?
Why is there a void in my soul bigger than the debris field of one of my rockets?
Why can’t I ever just shut up? Better to stay quiet and be thought a fool than to retweet #EndWokeness and remove all doubt.
I used to be smart. Now I’m on the same intellectual footing as Rudy Giuliani, Laura Loomer, and Trump’s campaign manager (not the one that was convicted of sexual battery, or the one that was convicted of bank fraud, but the one that was convicted of money laundering and tax fraud).
I have more in common with Marjorie Taylor Greene than Steve Jobs. How did that happen?!
When a Starlink transceiver goes haywire, engineers can get in there to figure out what’s wrong. But no one can go into my brain to figure out why I sit on the shower floor DM-ing Ian Miles Cheong.
I don’t like that my spirit animal is slime-fetus Voldemort from Harry’s final dream.1 Or that X’s stock price and my self-esteem are in a race to zero, and I think they’re both gonna win. Or that I’ve alienated everyone who’s never been warned to “stop making the waitress feel uncomfortable.”
Please, someone, tell me how to fix my brain. I’m too unfunny to go down in history as a joke.
1 COMMUNITY NOTE: Musk’s spirit animal is actually Voldemort’s rat subordinate, Wormtail.