The Gospel of Content
It starts with a free trial. “Cancel anytime,” they promise, as if the algorithm will let you go that easily. I am there too, juggling six subscriptions and pretending I’ll ever finish that documentary about octopuses. We call it entertainment, but it’s the most expensive way to avoid our own thoughts.
We’ve replaced hobbies with binge-watching, and the only thing we’re consuming is our free time. The rules are simple: every show is a must-watch, every platform is essential, and every “Skip Intro” button is a moral failing. We behave as if the streaming wars are a noble cause, even though the only thing at stake is our bandwidth.
The Performance of Taste
Streaming isn’t about watching; it’s about being seen watching. The fitness guy doesn’t just watch a documentary; he posts a thread about its “life-changing insights.” The influencer doesn’t just binge a series; she shares a curated list of “hidden gems.” The “authentic” mom doesn’t just watch cartoons with her kids; she writes a blog about the “lessons learned.” The problem isn’t the content; it’s the theater. We’re all auditioning for a role in a play no one wants to watch.
My favorite genre is performative curation. Today’s episode: someone brags about their “eclectic taste,” as if liking both indie films and Marvel movies is a personality. They’ll post a thread about “underrated shows,” conveniently leaving out the part where they discovered them on the platform’s homepage. The taste is real, but the originality is staged. It’s the human equivalent of ordering the chef’s special and calling it adventurous.
The Narcissism of Nostalgia
Every subscription is a mirror, and we’re all staring at our reflections, wondering if we’re interesting. Spoiler: we’re not, but this $14.99-a-month platform might help. The algorithm knows your insecurities better than your therapist. It whispers, “You’re missing out,” and we believe it because the alternative is admitting we’re fine with reruns. We subscribe to feel cultured, but the feeling expires faster than the free trial.
The joke is that we’re not discovering content; we’re being discovered by it. The bio changes from “person” to “cinephile” overnight, and with it comes the solemn duty to post a thread about “must-watch lists.” We think this is taste, but it’s just branding with extra steps.
The exchange rate
Curiosity converts to conformity at a rate of roughly one subscription per existential crisis. Side effects include FOMO, decision fatigue, and the sinking realization that you’re just a walking watchlist.
The Panic of the Backlog
We laugh at toddlers throwing tantrums, yet we panic harder when the “New Episodes” tab fills up. Too many shows? Suddenly we’re philosophers considering the void. The backlog grows, and grown adults stare at their screens like they’re meeting God. We’re not lazy; we’re terrified. Without the content, we might have to think about the life we’re avoiding.
Streaming is anesthesia. It numbs the day’s bruises with infinite little hits. Each episode is a bandage over a larger wound, and we keep layering them until the body cannot breathe. We call it relaxation, but it feels like speed dating with our own boredom, and everyone is lying about their queue.
Hypocrisy Is the House Style
The platform rewards extremes, so we oblige. We drag the “basic” for watching popular shows, then post about “hidden gems” we found on the same platform. We condemn binge culture while sharing our “weekend watchlist.” We mock influencers while secretly envying their recommendations. The hypocrisy isn’t a bug; it’s the business model. We’re needy, narcissistic, spineless clowns taking turns at the remote and acting offended when someone points it out.
I am not above any of this. I have pretended to “discover” a show everyone was already watching. I have curated a watchlist I’ll never finish. I have mistaken subscriptions for taste. The critique is a mirror, and the mirror is smudged with my fingerprints.
The House Always Wins
The platforms know the math. Keep the content slightly worse than satisfying, and people will chase the next hit. Serve guilt next to curiosity so users oscillate between shame and streaming, two emotions that never log off. Hide the unsubscribe button behind endless menus; the slot machine handle is your thumb. Show you ads that suggest you could be better if only you subscribed, joined the trend, or downloaded the app promising to “simplify your watchlist” by complicating it.
We supply the data for free. We even defend the system when critics ask questions. We call it “entertainment” while the house counts our hours like chips. The most disturbing part is how reasonable it feels. Of course I should watch this show instead of sleeping. Of course I should ask strangers if my taste is valid. Of course the best place to process grief is a binge-worthy series. It’s absurd, and somehow it’s Tuesday.
The Quiet Sting
The punchline is simple: the audience we pretend isn’t watching is very much watching, and we’re performing anyway. The neighbor you despise noticed your watchlist. The coworker you admire saw your “hidden gem” post and said nothing. The ex you blocked has a new account and knows exactly how often you stream. There’s no such thing as private content, only dimmer lights.
Maybe the only honest move is to admit we’re addicted to the feed. We want someone, anyone, to confirm we’re not boring. We could stop streaming, but then who would notice? We could keep streaming, but then who are we doing it for? The curtain never falls. The show goes on because we keep clapping for ourselves.
So here’s the mirror, held low and steady: we are the viewers, the curators, the critics, and the janitors mopping up spilled popcorn. The circus is us. If that stings, good. Maybe that itch is the first real feeling we’ve had all day.