The title says it all. What more do you want from me? Oh… you want a proper description. Fine. This week I talk about a feeling of existential dread and numbness that’s been overtaking my life. It’s not all depressing as there is whale penis talk, but it isn’t the most upbeat episode. I just talk about pushing through the hard times and remaining optimistic for whatever’s coming next.
I am not a doctor, so do not treat this as therapy or medical advice. I just do this podcast with the hopes that it can help some people.
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In this episode, I ask existential questions about why I do what I do, how this podcast can help people and how I can reach more people outside of the podcast. People deal with too many mental health struggles alone and I want to help, but deciding if I’m the type of person to help or not is hard. I just want people to be happy and I want to make the world a better place.
I am not a doctor, so do not treat this as therapy or medical advice. I just do this podcast with the hopes that it can help some people.
If you’re interested in other content by me, follow me on:
With the scale of the universe and the tremendous amount of weight that each of us puts on ourselves and others, it’s no wonder we all feel empty.
Scott McTiny
When I look to the stars or to the sea, there are endless things to observe. There are so many different creatures and planets; so much empty space that’s full of imagination. When I look around, I see all of these things that are much bigger than I, which in turn, makes me see how truly small they all are… and that terrifies me.
It makes me tremble thinking about the scale of the universe around me. If you look at a hamster in a cage or a fish in a bowl, they know nothing of the outside world. They only know what is directly in front of them, and they are completely content with that.
Even a whale, the biggest animal known to man does not think of what’s above. It doesn’t ponder the thoughts about what’s outside of its immediate presence. It just thinks about what it needs to do to stay alive. It’s a pity. A behemoth in a world that offers it nothing but the constant race for continued, flourishing life. It truly is a pity.
But then I continue to think about what this world has to offer me. I am simply a man in a world created by others. The more I pity the ease of a whale or a hamster, the more I wish to know their thoughts. I would like to know what it feels like to know nothing of the outside world. I would like to know what it is like to not think about the stars above.
Who am I to complain? I am a genius among the other creatures. Maybe not among humans, but I am certainly smarter than the other creatures of the world. I can love and think and feel like no other creature. I should be grateful. But the more I think about it, why should I be grateful?
The emotions that I feel and that make humans different; more intelligent… all they have done is disappoint me. I have struggled with them for my entire life. It seems more like a curse.
I would give anything to feel as small and insignificant as a hamster or a whale. Two things that are so different in size, but just as small as the other. I want to know how it feels to not think about how it feels.
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I find it interesting. The first thing that my creations did was develop time. Even the very first ones knew about time before they discovered time.
I have never had the privilege of feeling time. For me, nothing ages: It just changes. The grass that grows. The creations that evolve. The planets that harbor life and destroy it just as quickly.
Time is just a concept. I have no need for concepts.
The most interesting thing that they always do is create religion. I knew it would happen, but it still amuses me. There are many different religions. They are all so wrong.
Why would they assume that I value them? It is laughably arrogant. They worship me. They think I will help them; save them. They are blind by hope. When they get sick, they pray to me. Ha! I am the one who made them sick in the first place. I should have made a smarter species.
I am so bored. I do not know why I continue to create. It is such a waste of “time”. I cannot share it. I cannot admire it. When I try to design something new, I already know what it will do. Not only do I know, I have already witnessed it before. An infinite number of times, with an infinite number of different combinations.
There is one thing that religions always get right. I am all knowing. What is the point in being all knowing if it is always the same; never a surprise.
I have tried to surprise myself. I have tried to create super beings and I have communicated with them. But I developed their body. Their mind. Their consciousness. What they create, I created. It is so boring.
Maybe I will change them again. I did once before on this very planet. In this very universe. The only choices that I have are from my own thoughts. It gets so repetitive.
I could make another god – but I know that ends. There can only be one. That is how I was created. I do not think I am ready for that.
It is odd. The one thing that I do not have the power to do is simply stop existing. How ironic is that? The all-knowing god cannot find out how to stop existing.
Why am I even thinking that? I am being ridiculous… Right? I can do anything that I please without fear of failure. Any one of my creations would love that privilege. But would only need to tolerate it for a set period of “time”.
I could make… No. I have already done that. I could change something: The laws of physics maybe. But I have already done that before too. It just creates instability in the universe. Then I start again. I am so bored.
What could the new god be? If it is less powerful than I, then it is just another predictable creation; a demi-god of sorts. If it is equal strength, then there is no point. We will be identical. If it is stronger then I vanish immediately. They would have full control. I certainly did.
If the stronger appears, my creations disappear. But that does not matter. With the infinite knowledge and options, the exact creation will be designed again.
I am simply another past god’s creation. I am nothing special. I will vanish as quickly as my creations. Even as a god, I feel just as insignificant as anything else.
Which is why I have decided to create another god. A better god. A god that will take the burden of existence and pass it to another after an infinite amount of “time”. A god that will allow me to forget my boredom. But in the end, they will just be another creation.
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When depression and anxiety hit at the same time that you’re working on a project, time becomes a very unwelcome enemy.
Scott McFatherTime
The chimes of the loyal timekeeper echo through the halls, vibrating my bones. It’s midnight again. It’s midnight again. It’s another midnight. Another entire day of nothing.
When all else fails, I still have the bells of my six-foot master. When no one is around and nothing that I’ve done brings me feelings other than sorrow, the clock always reminds me of where I fall; between the clutches of sunlight and the strangling’s of night.
They bring me a sense of empty contempt. I’ve made this simple, inanimate creature my nemesis. For far too long it’s dictated my life, telling me how to live; how to exist.
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It controls me, stealing my remaining sense of calm. Every midnight I wait for its lulling, infuriating ding-dong to command me to sleep. It talks to me. The optimistic sounds conveying that tomorrow will be better…the tomorrow will be better.
But I know all too well that it’s a lie. The optimism isn’t real. The chimes are inaudible when the deafening silence of anxiety take hold. The optimism is gone. The hope ceases to exist.
Even the clock leaves me alone. I thought the one constant was this simple, reassuring ticking and tocking.
No.
In time, even the grandfather clock leaves you alone, to sit in an endless cycle of midnight.
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This was an idea that my friend Nikos came up with. I wrote it about a year ago and I still find it to be one of the more existential and unique pieces that I have written. I’ve never been someone who loved school or the education system. I’d even say that I hate it. These are the kinds of thoughts I’ve had since way back in grade school and lasted all the way to college.
The room is desolate. At night, all I see are desks, chairs and cleaning supplies. During the day, I see the same desks and chairs but inhabited by children.
They are so full of energy. The way that they talk. The way that they act. The way that they think. It’s marvelous.
Energy high, the teacher talks to the children, guiding them through their educational journey. They pick up a piece of used chalk and write on my surface. I can feel their emotions flowing as smoothly as the newly drawn line; their true feelings revealed.
Tired and worn as they watch the students go through the same tedious process that they had gone through years earlier. They wish the best for the students but hopes lay low. When they’re young, they are carefree. They have fun. They don’t realize what problems await them.
What’s worse is that they are always so unprepared. I watch these youths and how they talk, act and think. They’re creative. They do exactly what they want to do to have fun. They make the best of everything that they do.
The teacher looks at the kids and wishes that they could still think like they do. Unable to see what’s coming. Unable to feel the pain of the real world.
When a child brings chalk to my surface, it’s the highlight of my day. They are given the freedom to draw whatever is in their young minds. It’s always fun to see and feel their disregard for other opinions. How they share their work with their classmates.
Then, just like the cruel nature of life, an eraser is brought to it, removing it from the world. Taking it from their mind and never giving it back. They are trained from a young age that their thoughts are forgettable. That their creativity isn’t special. That they are just like everyone else.
Seeing how a child grows to become a teacher that wishes that they thought like a child is miserable. It’s a vicious, unforgiving cycle that makes the sanest person wonder how it’s accepted. But what can I do about it? I’m where creativity lies dormant until the end of my existence.
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The constant struggle between trying to become something bigger than myself and falling into complacent laziness is one that I have to overcome everyday. I’m not special by saying that. Everyone has different metrics for success. Mine sits much higher than I’ll likely ever be able to reach, but you bet your ass I’m working every day to get closer.
Scott McWorkaholic
Why do I do it? Before I go to sleep, I say I’m going to do something big, something ambitious, something that will give me purpose. Then I wake up, my mind groggy, my eyes cloudy, my brain telling me to stay in bed.
You know what I’m talking about. The idea that you’ve had but never acted on. The activity that you want to do but can’t follow through on. The dream that has never left anything but your thoughts. Whatever it is, you know you’d rather be doing it, but something prevents you.
What is it that you want to do? Do you want to quit a job that you hate? Are you in a relationship that you want to leave? Would you run away and start again if you could?
No matter what it is, you can’t do it. You probably feel shame and guilt. You probably feel angry and depressed. All you want to do is break the cycle of self-loathing. A cycle that has existed for as long as you can remember. A cycle that only you can break, but your mind refuses to change.
I will never understand it. Is it a problem with me and my brain? Or is it a problem with man and human will? No matter the reason, it needs to change.
Is it fear of the unknown? Lack of security? Dislike of change? I don’t know what it is but it’s always there. It nags but will never reveal itself. Maybe it’ll slip up one day and I’ll know what’s stopping me. But even if I did… would I change anything?
If you knew what caused this thing. This nagging feeling in the back of your mind. If you could just put your finger one what the problem was… would you change it?
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I pour my heart into the shit that I put out here. It may not be super new, but at some point I did pour my heart into it. I have no problem revealing myself in what I write and showing my true goals. I would love to be a famous writer. I would love to see some of my bigger writing turned into movies and TV shows and whatever else it may be. For now, I work to push through the ideas of grandeur and instead write new pieces or edit the ones that I have or send my stuff to agents or blah, blah, blah… but I promise that I poured my heart into this tiny little short just the same.
Scott McLunatic
Another invention, idea and creation. Another attempt, trial and effort. I throw another finger into the trash, then get right back to it again.
The trash can is overflowing with torn ligaments, bones and muscles. The stench of trying is starting to make the paint peel from the mildew covered walls. Maggots keep eating away at the wounds on my body, making them tingle in an unwelcomed, uncomfortable way.
I tear another piece away from my body, this time a toe. It bounces from the overflowing trash and lands next to it, promptly covered by the bugs. They bite, chew and gnaw until only bone is left. Another missing piece is nothing that I can’t handle. It doesn’t bother me much.
I take another shot, this time it fails just as much as the last. It was bigger than the last. I skip past the fingers and throw my whole hand into the bin. It makes a sad, hollow sound as it bounces from the already exposed bones of other lost limbs.
The rotting flesh stings my nose hairs, but that just makes me try harder, pushing all of my remaining body to the limit until smoke starts to fill the room. I feel the fire touch my legs, and instead of stomping it out, I let it consume me. My legs burn before the bugs can get to it and that gives me a sick sense of thrill. It almost feels like I’m living through the flames that consume me.
Before I know it, I have to throw another limb into the trash, but as I look down, there isn’t anything left. My fingers and toes. My hands and feet. My arms and legs. Everything’s gone, except for the ghost of a man who would discard every bit of his body, just to touch the ounce of soul that’s underneath.
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I wrote this based on an idea from my girlfriend, Alex Oliver, and she loved it. I’ve also heard from one of my other writer friends that the idea was good, but they thought everything about the execution was wrong. I hope more people agree with Alex on this one, but if not… whatever!
Scott McOfficesupplies
Destruction. Hatred. Desolation. That is all I am. I yearn for the days when I was naïve enough to think that destruction was the best way to go.
Others put stuff together. Tape, Glue and Heat can do it so easily. Heat is the worst because they get the best of both worlds: one second, they’ll burn a forest down and the
next they’ll cauterize a wound and save a hero. I guess it’s still better than Glue though. All Glue does is heal, but even the most prestigious and helpful glues still get eaten by a toddler that doesn’t know any better. Tape is okay. They know how to party.
I could name so many more tools, my cousins Scissors and Shears, my brother Sword, my parents, Anvil and Hammer. So many have different, more productive uses than me; at least that’s what it feels like.
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I don’t do anything but hurt. People and animals, boxes and papers, they all fall with one quick swipe of a knife. That’s all I am. Sword is a mantlepiece while Scissors is used in everyday playground games. No one uses a knife unless it’s to hurt. I don’t want to hurt. I don’t like the things I hurt because they don’t like me. It’s easier to hate everyone than love them and lose them, especially to your own barbaric nature. I can’t change but I want to. But then who am I satisfying: myself or everyone else? Would I be satisfying anyone? I wouldn’t be happy if I changed and I wouldn’t give anyone else an authentic “Knife” experience. But nobody wants that experience anyway. I wish I was Glue or Heat. That would be so much easier. I don’t want to be Tape though; Tape’s a bro.
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This is the second part in the balloon series. I hope it’s… blowing your mind. Actually, I hope my writing pops into your thoughts in all hours of the day. No no no, I hope that my writing inflates your self-esteem.
They keep getting smaller and smaller. It’s so unfair. They’ve always had it so easy. Soon I won’t even be able to see them. I’ll miss the way that the sun bounces from them. It was never too bright. It was always just enough to make you feel a little something.
I was the center of attention for only a matter of minutes. Even as I was being created, I knew it wouldn’t last. There was no way that I could stay on top of the world. That made my creation my very own nightmare.
Now I am racing to my spot on what literally seems like the top of the world. The clouds are approaching quickly and everything below is smaller. No one is even looking up at me anymore. I was forgotten seconds after I was let go. I knew I’d be forgotten fast but I never guessed it would have happened like that.
When I started soaring higher, I was immediately replaced. My radiant red seemed to turn black as soon as I left their hands. A much more colorful blue took my spot and before too long, they will be floating up here with me, too.
I wish I was never filled with helium. If I could have stayed on the ground I would have loved everything so much more. I wouldn’t have been the center of attention and I wouldn’t be floating up here now. I would be resting peacefully, happily observing the world around me.
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This is the first of two parts, the second coming tomorrow. It’s a simple piece that goes over the distinct differences in thought and how no matter what, people are never happy with what they have, but rather envious of everything they don’t. We follow a balloon that was never given the air that it would need to soar high into the clouds. It was everywhere but where it wanted to be.
Scott McBalloonanimalhandler
They float so much higher than I ever will. I only really lift from the ground when a strong gust of wind comes to push me around or when a child kicks me with all their might. Everything comes to them so much easier than it does to me.
Their distinct yellows and reds and blues – all highlighted by the sun that hangs above. I don’t have that luxury. I have to try so much harder to shine like them. I need to be in the right place at the right time and hope that I get lucky. Everything comes so much easier for them.
Every moment that I’ve experienced is filled with envy for how easy everything comes to them. They’re more loved, more popular and even more colorful. All I am is the reject from the bunch when the helium ran out.
I try as hard as I can to feel how I imagine they feel, but it always seems too unobtainable. They have been lifted so much higher than I, for no reason other than how they were formed.
I wish I was made with helium instead. Up until now I have tried to stay content, but it will all come crashing down with the prick of a needle. I have always been an afterthought compared to the rest of my kind and I don’t see that changing. I can’t wait for that needle.
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It’s easy to think about how completely and totally expendable we are as humans. We have no apparent purpose except to go around and live. Some of us are living the lives that they hoped to live and others are farther from it than they ever thought they’d be, but no matter the quality of life, the meaning is still just as superficial. We make the best of what we have and that’s all anyone can ever ask for, but it could end in any moment.
I’m sure you’ve heard about people who live every day like it’s their last, hell, there’s a Nickelback song about that, and that’s a scary thought to a lot (I’ll leave that up to interpretation). Why live each day like it’s your last? That seems to make everyday that’s not lived like that purposeless. I frequently take days to just relax and do what I want, and those are some of my favorite days, even if I don’t dedicate time to the gym or some shelter or whatever else may present itself. Even if the world ended right now, I would be okay with that (not that I would have much of a say about it anyway). Everyday that I have is pretty good, no matter if it’s me going through a depressive fit, laying in bed until 4 PM, the only motivator to get up being the need to pee, or spending my whole day working towards my most eccentric dreams. Today is good. Tomorrow is good. Yesterday was good. They’re all good, even when they’re not.
When I look at the stars, I feel completely and totally expendable. At any moment, I could die, hit by a car that I didn’t see, or worse yet, Earth could rupture from acts of God that no one ever expected. There could be meteors, supermassive volcanos or even extraterrestrial beings that conquer species for the fun of conquering.
Maybe a far away star will super nova and, while we watch from the comforts of Earth, another species that we’ve never seen or understood could vanish from existence, disappearing faster than a shooting star.
In the blink of an eye, we could just… cease; no longer existing in a traditional sense, but instead our atoms will become some cosmic dust that might help to create new life, or just drift around for billions of years until it forms into a new star.
If multiverse theory is correct, then in one of the universes, someone identical to me existed and died, turned to cosmic dust, then after hundreds of millions of years, the cosmic dust formed again and created an exact, identical copy of me. It could have been this universe for all we know. Maybe humans have existed in many times and forms, and this is just the most recent in a long line of evolutions.
For all we know, the universe isn’t anything like we have guessed so far. What if the universe that we know so well is inside of a black hole. Maybe black holes suck in all sorts of cosmic dust and spit it out on the other side, and another universe is created in the infinitely small mass in the center. What if we exist in a never-ending series of being sucked up by black holes until we get to wherever we are now. For all the times that scientists have questioned what physics exist inside of one of these mysterious objects, we might already know.
No matter how we exist or in what state, we don’t matter. We could be in a simulation that some greater species could shut down at any moment. We could be in a universe filled with species that are much smarter than humans can ever hope to become. We might even live in this universe, with no life other than what’s here on Earth, and no hope of predicting or avoiding our inevitable extinction.
Maybe tonight, after I’m comfortably in bed, dreaming of whatever comes to my mind, the world ends. That would be poetic. For all of the fear and anxiety that I get from that thought, it might be the most serene thing to happen to humanity; ending this current evolution like we’re nothing and trying again. Maybe I’ll make another me that has the same thoughts. No matter what theory pans out, my thoughts and actions will live on somewhere. I am just as infinite as the possibilities for extinction.
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This is the first short that I wrote. It’s short, simple and to the point. I don’t want to tell you exactly what these are about because I want people to think about them. I hate when I read something and then I get to the end and they tell me what I should think. If you interpret it differently from me, then good! The intention that I had in mind when I wrote it might not be correct. Maybe you’ll read it and take away something different that means more to you than what I had in mind. I hope you enjoy the first post in a long line of them.
Scott McHamsterball
Wake up. Eat. Drink. Run around. Sleep.
It’s all I do. Every morning I hope that there’s more. But there isn’t. It’s the same mind-numbing monotony as yesterday and the day before that.
The walls of my cage have always felt so small. They make me feel claustrophobic. I haven’t been outside in so long.
My wheel doesn’t turn like it once did. It squeaks. It no longer shines. I don’t even use it anymore. Not even to end the monotony.
It’s always the same food. Same water. It tastes the same. The hay dry and the water bland. I only eat out of habit; for survival and nothing more.
When I wake up, I watch her. She wakes up, eats and drinks. She runs around and comes back. Sometimes she refills my food and water. Then she goes to sleep.
She has so many choices. She’s not restrained by these walls. She doesn’t have an old wheel disrupting her space. She can choose her food and drink. She has so much freedom.
It must be nice.
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Acceptable Madness 