Brain Rot and A Hopeful Cure
A ridiculous second-person story followed by my earnest attempts to heal my attention span.
Brain Rot
Once again, your manager scheduled you for the late night shift at the gas station. Usually, this wouldn't bother you, as the lack of customers and the ability to read undisturbed were pleasures only accessible during this shift. However, this wasn't a typical week. Two weeks ago, you had explicitly requested this night off for tomorrow; you had planned to surprise your best friend with a birthday breakfast. As expected, your middle-aged manager ignored this request and scheduled you anyway. Oh, the joys of working for slightly above minimum pay. Drumming a pencil against the counter, you sigh; it looks like it will be energy drinks and espresso for breakfast.
Looking out the window past the worn white gas pumps, you notice one of the street lights flickering, its fluorescent beam illuminating the street briefly before plunging the world back into darkness. Your manager had requested you report these things to maintenance- but as he refused to schedule you properly you ignore it. You look around the gas station, scanning the shelves for anything out of place. All the overpriced candy was neatly stocked in their cardboard containers, the 99c hot dogs were rolling away in their heated prison, and the sugary drinks filled each refrigerator lining the back wall. On the coffee machine, an "out of order "is stuck with blue painter's tape; "whatever," you think, "that's the morning shift's problem." The humming fluorescent lights cast a dingy yellow glow on the place; you smile to yourself, thinking how some teenager would probably find this scene "aesthetic" and "liminal," whereas you find it "boring" and "stupid."
You look back out the window one last time before opening your book. Just as you look down, something is caught in the beam of the flickering light. You look up again, see nothing, and return to reading. Good ol' Terry Pratchett can make even the most boring shifts pass tolerably.
You've only started to read when you were interrupted by the obnoxious ringing of the store's digital doorbell. Three older teens walk in, giggling and talking to themselves. You glance up, roll your eyes, and get back to reading. Probably some local teens, high off overpriced weed, looking for some equally overpriced snacks. In no world is a gas station chocolate bar actually worth 6$.you look back down at your book and continue reading.
"Bro, Bro is literally reading. Bro thinks they're a reader". A slightly nasally voice interrupts your concentration. You look back up to face the three teenagers. They look like ordinary teens, with light acne spatters across their faces, their clothes all slightly too big or too small, and faces still childish and soft despite the signs of maturity, like the patchy mustache on the first teen.
"Can I help you?" You ask, drawing out the question, wanting to return to your book.
On second look, something is off. Their hands stay in a claw-like position as if they were clutching a small rectangular object, and they got stuck that way. Their skin paler than even the most agoraphobic person, and their eyes- oh god, their eyes! where there was once presumably a dark pupil now glowed bright , light headlights caught in a cat's eye, and still not quite. It glowed brighter, more harshly, with a life of its own, flickering every so gently.
"Bro thinks they a reader." The patchy mustached one says again, the two teens to his left giggling in return.
"What?" You say in response, brow furrowing.
The teen in the middle, a shorter kid with washed-out dyed hair and chunky eyeliner glares at you.
"Cringe much?" They sneer.
You sigh. There goes the mildly uneventful evening you had so wanted.
"Hmph. A beta reaction," says Patchy Mustache "but what can you expect from a negative canthal tilt with no rizz?"
"Excuse me?" You say, this time with a bit more force. Before you can even get the sentence out, the teens are at the back of the store as if they hadn't talked to you at all. They tear off one of the refrigerator doors and begin to chug energy drinks, unhinging their jaws like ravenous snakes, pouring the entire drink down their throat without swallowing before tossing the empty cans aside, not bothering to wipe the excess dripping down their faces.
"Hey!" You stand up, shouting, " You better be paying for those!"
The last one, who hadn't spoken at all before, now whips around her head to stare at you and begins to hiss. She bites off the lid of an iced coffee and pours it into her gaping mouth before slamming the glass onto the floor without flinching. Her lips are unmoving, yet a taunting song escapes from them.
"Did you pray today? Did you pray today?" The song feels like a threat more than anything.
"Miss," you say, trying your best to keep your voice from shaking, "if you don't stop breaking the bottles, you are going to have to leave."
Her eyes widen as she bares her teeth. "WHY DO YOU HATE WOMEN?" she roars, slamming down yet another iced coffee before smashing the glass on the floor.
Was it sexist to ask a teen girl to stop slamming glass bottles on the floor and saying odd things? Had it been just one or the other, maybe you could have excused their actions, but no, wait, you'd have read about this online. Brain Rot. A supposed condition caused by an excessive consumption of digital information resulting in overload and overexposure. You'd read rumors in some forums that it was starting to affect people's physical appearance and behavior, but nothing like this was ever mentioned. Exiting behind the desk, you walk over to them calmly. "Please leave; you guys are just kids, so I'm giving you a chance. Stop, clean this up, and maybe I'll only make you pay for half."
"Bro, chill, this is literally fanum tax," says Patchy Mustache, Chunky Eyeliner echoing his taunt. "Fanum tax, bro, fanum tax." The other one's head rolls to the side, her eyes never breaking eye contact with you. "Only in Ohio," she begins to laugh, slamming another glass bottle onto the linoleum.
"BRUH, YOU'VE GOT NO RIZZ. NO GYATT" patchy mustache shouts, the light beaming from his pupils beginning to flash faster and faster.
You step back, and they step closer, kicking the empty cans and glass shards aside. "Leave. Now," you say sternly as you can, your clenched fists shaking at your sides. Patchy mustache steps close, too close.
"LISTEN, BRO. "his breath reeks of Nitro Cosmic Peach; you can see inside his pupils now. What was just a flashing light before was now clearly a vertical screen, scrolling endlessly through all the joys and horrors humanity has ever faced. Every stupid half-baked thought, every hateful lie, every meaningless quip, scrolled through with relentless vigor. Your mouth opens, and you can feel your drool begin to pool over your lip; you instinctively shield your eyes.
"I AM THE SIGMA. YOU'VE GOT NO RIZZ."
"No rizz, no rizzzzzz" echo his lackeys, mirroring his brainless behavior, their strained claw-like hands inching towards your face. You step back, knocking over a display of chips.
"HAHHAAHAH," laughs Patchy Mustache, crushing a bag of Doritos underfoot.
"OH YOURE SUSSY " he yells, lunging for you, his weird, strained hands missing your face by a few inches. You can feel your heart thudding against your rib cage as you bolt back behind the desk and slam the gate, locking it. You look up at the teens shuffling over to you, their necks bending at awful inhuman angles, their empty hands longing for something, twitching. Ducking down, you search for something to protect yourself with, a broom, a rolled-up newspaper, anything to beat them back if they come over the counter. Your panicked silence is interrupted by a reminder notification- it's midnight.
Your throat clenched, you can hear the teens shuffling over to the front now, muttering incomprehensibly.
There was no telling what they'd do. Your hands were drenched in sweat, and you were now struggling to grip your phone. If you don't get out of this alive, you should at least let your friend know you love them.
Shakily, you text "I love you, happy birthday." and hit send. Then it hits you.
Baby sensory videos.
Hurriedly, you tap on the search bar and type it in
" The loading icon feels like a death sentence, spinning endlessly above a blank screen.
"WHAM! BAM, NBAM, BAM, BAM!" the teens have made it to the counter and are now tearing down the plastic shield put up during the recent pandemic, their eyes glowing brighter than before and flashing erratically. The loading symbol turns mindlessly as you hear the shield fall to the floor. Your stomach tightens around itself, threatening to spill out from your mouth. It's quiet—too quiet. You clutch the phone to your chest and look up behind you.
"Skibidi toilet" is the last thing you hear before Patchy Mustache, Chunky Eyeliner, and Other One throw themselves over the counter. You stand up, back against the wall, hands clutching your phone tightly to your chest, the blood rushing through your ears.
They are now inches away from your face, all muttering nonsense, like a pack of delirious hyenas playing with their prey before disemboweling. Nitro cosmic peach pollutes the air, you can't breathe, the loading symbol still spinning wildly, your promise of salvation in the hands of the world's slowest WiFi.
"Doo du du du doo! Cocomelon!" The video begins to play in seconds before Patchy Mustache's breath suffocates you. The teens growl and lunge for the phone; you jump up, throw it across the counter, and into a display of pre-packed baked goods.
The teens barrel back over the counter, grab the phone, and place it on the floor. They sit down politely before watching intently, for the first time this evening, behaving somewhat normally, even if they were still behaving like rabid toddlers.
Hands still shaking, you creep past them and silently make your way out to the somehow still usable landline at the edge of the gas station property and dial a number you'd hoped to never call.
My humor throughout highschool was very much shaped by memes like this. It still is.
A Hopeful Cure
About two years ago, I knew I had a problem when I began to dream of my phone. For the longest time, the internet was my drug of choice, a way to escape my problems at home and school and a way for me to form social connections without having to leave my room. I am grateful to the internet and its gift of hyperconnectivity for exposing me to beautiful art, writing, books, and movies I may not have seen otherwise. Had it not been for tumblr.com, I wouldn't have discovered my love for Czech new wave film, Ai Yazawa, and vintage fashion, all of which I consider a part of my formative years. Instagram has gotten me in contact with some of my favorite YouTubers and writers, like @finalgirldiary, who inspired me to get back into essay writing far before I dared DM her. But like many things, the gift is the curse; there is a fine line to tread. Even water can be poison in the wrong dosage.
In September of 2023, I felt a certain violence towards myself that I haven't since age thirteen. My screen time hours ran rampant, and my attention span was less than that of a goldfish. I felt sick, but also like I owed the internet my devotion, like if I could just scroll far down enough I'd find god, or at least something good enough to bring me eternal satisfaction.
I decided I needed strict guidelines if I was to keep using the internet, much like my rules around drinking or smoking. First, honesty, one must admit the problem is present in order to address it. I have an internet, specifically, social media addiction. Even platforms like Substack and the goddamn Gmail app I compulsively check an inordinate amount of times. I know they are designed to be addictive, designed to trap your attention and hold you there endlessly, all while some CEO swims in a pool of money he made off your worsening mental health, and yet I still need to take responsibility for what I can.
At first, I stuck with keeping all social apps off my phone until I needed to use them, and then I utilized parental controls on myself. It wasn't enough. Whenever I had access to WiFi, I would redownload Instagram and restart my endless scroll. My hands itched with the compulsion to post whatever stupid thought crossed my mind. So, I took about a six-week break from Instagram, enough to break the habit. Now, I limit myself to thirty minutes or less of Instagram a week and am much more content with my life.
I can sit through a whole movie, read for an hour straight, and type for two hours ( this I am incredibly pleased about). My focus is sharpening. I can think clearly without having to push down sound bites or whatever song is trending on TikTok or reels. It's incredibly freeing, and forgotten aspects of myself have returned. Now that I have the time and mental capacity to do enjoyable things, like drawing with chalk or making homemade thank-you cards, my passion for learning has returned.
It's only been two months since this changed relationship, and there's still a way to go. My screen time is still up, thanks to my habit of playing two-hour video essays about the Dark Souls trilogy or Renaissance Fashion while cleaning or driving to work. I still find myself deleting Substack after I catch myself scrolling on Notes for too long, but the point isn't perfection; it's progress. I love the Internet, I love posting on Instagram, I love making stupid memes at other people giggle at, my hopeful cure is an attempt to strike a balance between material reality and digital surreality. The apps are designed to be addicting, but I have a choice, even if it's not easy to make.
My Personal Cure for Brain Rot ( as of now)
Admit there's a problem.
Set limitations. ( delete accounts, delete apps, and only use certain apps on a specific days, etc. (this will have to adapt over time))
Keep yourself accountable by sharing this journey with close friends or family.
Spend time outside ( in whatever way possible. Even if it's just sitting on the stoop.)
Stop thinking about yourself so much; go volunteer. Help out your neighbors in the ways you can.
Take time to learn new skills, and get back into doing something you once enjoyed.
Talk to strangers. Small talk can be awkward, but it's not "bad" or "shallow". Even the smallest of connections bear importance.
Document beautiful moments without posting them. Annotate your books, stitch your name into the collar of your coat.
If you feel slighted by someone, don't post about it immediately. Name the feeling without giving it a story, and give yourself time to process it.
Work towards creating a world that people don't need to escape from.
I think you’ve achieved something really special here. Before reading the other comments, I thought the first part was fully horror and not really funny at all! (I can see how it could be, but I tend to take things very seriously and usually prefer horror over comedy). Anyway, loved this so much and am having such a great morning reading all of your other essays! Thank you for your service to humanity 🫡
Wow wow wow really loved this a lot. The intro was funny and interesting but reading about your experience with internet addiction cut deep for me. I like the rules you outlined and will keep them close to my heart :)