I’ve been in long term relationships. I’ve been in short term relationships. I’ve been ‘seeing people’ with it never progressing to a relationship. I’ve gone on dates without it evolving into ‘seeing someone’. Am I missing out on an experience known to be full of pain, but also necessary for spiritual development? Or am I lucky?

According to the good people of Reddit, a ‘situationship’ means:

- “the sweetest, warmest, most inviting trap you’ll ever get caught in”

- “they have no intention of committing long term”

- “acting like you’re in a relationship but not committed and normally fucking other people/possibly dating other people”

- “a casual dating type deal where one or both people are just kinda killing time until till they find something better.”

The last definition hit me. Maybe I have been in a situtationship and I just didn’t know it. It is entirely possible that I thought I was dating someone and they were dragging me on for the ride.

It just dawned on me. It was 2021. I was seeing this girl who was lovely, but I just couldn’t put my finger on that was missing. It was during the pandemic, so she was the only person I could bring to my house as long as we told the government we were partners. We watched the L Word and ate takeout food. I may have strung her along because I thought she would make a good partner, but I couldn’t reconcile that with the fact that I just wasn’t that into her. Fast forward after the break up - my ex roommate became best friends with her and I never saw either of them again. Maybe THAT was a situationship.

Or maybe I was in a situationship when I was dating a teacher in 2022. We planned to go up the coast and see her parents, so I thought we were serious. When we were on a date at the zoo she said: “My parents might call you my girlfriend. Sorry if that’s weird.” So I plucked up the courage to ask: “Actually, could I call you that?” The answer was no. Apparently asking her at the zoo wasn’t romantic enough. A month later she came over in my lunch break and showed me a Spotify playlist that spelt out the words “do you want to be my girlfriend?” After all the talk of romance, she gave me a gesture that would have taken her five minutes while sitting in her car. Spoiler alert: it lasted one month. She criticised everything from my parking to how often I let my dog in the house (apparently I had to leave him outside more to be independent).

I could have been in a situationship with a girl I was seeing in 2023. Everything seemed surface level, and we never really got that vulnerable. I was trying ti figure out how to escalate things. But then she slept over, told me she had a ‘daddy kink’ and started going on about a guy she slept with exactly 5 weeks ago.

Are situationships really that different from people taking their time and figuring out if they want to commit? How can we classify what is a situationship when we can’t agree on the criteria? Does only one person in the arrangement know its a situationship?

Something that gets to me about online dating is how many people state on their profiles that they are wanting ‘Short term, open to long.” It’s as if they’re asking for a situationship. Is the ‘short term’ really a probation period to a long term contract? Or is it a preference for something casual? I’ve never been able to figure it out.

Maybe you can only clock a situationship after the fact. I don’t think anyone really stays in this kind of relationship while knowing its true nature. Hopefully the expectations of a situationship remain mysterious to me for the foreseeable future.

BookTok refers to the online book community on TikTok. Creators pose in front of full shelves talking about the books they love, the books they hate, and their endless TBRs (To Be Reads). BookTok has launched the careers of many writers, including Colleen Hoover, Taylor Jenkins Reid and Ali Hazelwood.

BookTok seems to have made a private hobby into something more public and democratic. But is this a good thing? I think there are a few main issues with BookTok: the endless recommendations spiral, reaching for viral success, comparison and competition, and spruiking reading related products, such as reading devices and accessories.

Book recommendation paralysis

What sucks you into BookTok is the sheer volume of recommendations. I found my favourite books, The Stationery Shop (Marian Kamali) and The Nightingale (Kristin Hannah), on BookTok. The Nightingale is so popular that I probably would have found it by myself, but I’m not sure I would have come across The Stationery Shop.

Some of the videos are detailed reviews about a single book. While others have less substance, palming through a pile of books with a simple yes/no/maybe. Many videos give recommendations for books based on something you’ve already read, without any further context. One of the positives of having so many reviews and recommendations is that you can follow creators with similar taste.

Of course, trying to optimise your reading experience can be a paradox. Limiting your reading to BookTok recommendations or books with a certain Goodreads rating might mean that you don’t read many ‘bad’ books. But this completely removes the serendipity of pulling my books off a shelf a book shop. It stops the connection found in reading a book your friend recommended. It means you don’t take the risk on a small indie author you find at a writers festival.

Trying to keep up with BookTok recommendations can also be overwhelming. I have a list of about 70 books I want to read in the next year or so. But the problem is, I keep watching more videos and adding to it. Adding books to your TBR or buying books is a separate hobby that can devalue actual reading. If you’re alway thinking about what you’ll read next, it takes away from absorbing and appreciating what you’re reading right now. If you’re spending a lot of time looking through recommendations instead of just picking something up, this can leave you in a sort of book recommendation paralysis.

Many creators make light of their overconsumption. *Oh I had the ebook, but I needed the physical book as a trophy. Look at my 200 book physical TBR.* One creator recently was in hot water for showing off special editions of Mein Kampf. Books are both art and a product. If you’re constantly looking for the next book to consume, you’re seeing books as a commodity.

Collecting books is often the focus of BookTok rather than actually reading. TikTok rewards users with a certain aesthetic, which leads to a lot of repetitive content that can only be achieved by buying the right shelves, the right books and the right ereader accessories. If you’re always collecting, adding to your TBR list, or watching videos about books, that’s time you could have spent reading.

Viral success

Books like Fourth Wing, The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo and The Housemaid would not have had the same success without BookTok. But what makes a viral success? Authors are expected not only to write a fantastic novel, but something that marketable on a particular platform.

In 2026, everyone is talking about Yesteryear, about a trad wife influencer being thrust back into pioneer times to live the life she’s promoting. I’ll admit this is on my ‘to be read’ list, so I’ve been influenced. Anne Hatheway has picked up the movie rights. Interestingly, Hatheway was mentioned in the acknowledgements of the book. It makes you wonder, was this book set up for viral TikTok success to promote the upcoming movie? Considering Hatheway’s involvement, the success of the book on TikTok seems like more than the organic success of a story that was just so well loved by users that they promoted it for free.

Truely, TikTok is an advertising platform. But instead of only pushing sponsored videos, most of the advertising is created for free by users who want to monetise their content. Sure, users will review and promote books they’re fans of. But to monetise, they need to jump on trends and talk about the books everyone else is talking about. This means that a lot of the recommendations are disingenuous. BookTokers ask themselves ‘what content will get views and earn me money?’ This intent is hidden behind smiling faces and hooks, so it seems that the most popular books of BookTok are just the best.

The problem with finding books with an algorithm is that everyone ends up reading and talking about the same books and authors. I’ve seen countless videos of people rating Freida McFadden’s books, but I haven’t seen much content on similar authors. Fast paced thrillers written by women are abundant, but they’re not floating to the top of my FYP because they’re not pulling views.

Then there’s the single-minded focus on tropes. Reducing books to tropes completely spoils the plots, and encourages people to read the same sort of stories over and over again. This is also leading to changes in publishing, with reports that some publishers are only accepting submissions with ‘TikTok buzzwords.’ Focusing on tropes is just another way the algorithm is trying to push an experience that seems so personalised that you can’t leave the platform, and stay glued to advertisements that seem like they’re made specifically for you.

Algorithms prefer extremes and simplification over context. It’s about monetisation, not nuanced, thoughtful discussions of books or advancing literature. Sure, a yes/no/maybe video might help you find a new book. But the creator made that video to keep up with a trend on a monetised platform, with books recommended to them from the same algorithm. It’s a cycle.

Let’s talk about ereaders

Before BookTok, I didn’t know that it was possible to overconsume ereaders. I’ve seen multiple videos of people sorting through stacks of reading devices as if they’re choosing their outfit for the day. There’s countless videos of people showing off multiple ereaders and explaining why they needed another device to do almost the same thing.

One thing that gets to me about BookTok is the pressure to make reading an aesthetic experience. BookTok usually film in front of shelves with perfectly organised shelves and sprayer edge special editions. But that’s not where it ends. There’s a whole niche for videos of people decorating their Kindle with charms, pop sockets and stickers from Amazon. They don’t just do this when they first get the Kindle. Sometimes they feel the need to do a ‘refresh’ with a new charm, new stickers, and more plastic. There are some users who turn the Kindle refresh into an art project by making their own inserts in Canva. But for most, it’s about unboxing the accessory purchases.

I must admit I have fallen victim to some of BookTok’s charms. I own two ereaders - a Kindle Paperwhite and a Boox Palma 2. I bought the Boox as an anti-scrolling device. Unlike the Kindle, it can use apps like Instapaper and Libby. It’s also small enough to fit in most handbags. I probably would not have bought the Boox without BookTok’s input, but I believe it has been a significant life upgrade that’s encouraged me to read more.

The back of my Kindle Paperwhite is already covered in stickers, so I don’t know why I can’t pull my eyes away from the ‘refresh’ videos. I know that every minute I watch videos about ereaders is time I could have spent using my ereader. But there’s something about living through someone else’s experience of putting stickers on plastic.

Is reading a sport?

Many BookTokers treat reading like a competitive sport, posting the 20 books they read in the last month or subtlety bragging about how read 100 books in a year. Reading any books should be celebrated, but BookTok makes it a bit too easy to compare your reading journey to others.

BookTok has turned the private joy of reading into a public activity. Participants can be made to feel like they need to inhale books to keep up with discourse and trends. But what happened to savouring the pages?

The reality is that to be able to keep up with posting, BookTokers need to read enough to have content. This often means that quality of reading is traded for quantity and a lack of critical engagement. It’s the same authors, aesthetics, trends and tropes on repeat. Churning out content does not bode well for originality or thorough textual analysis.

I’ve seen classic literature reduced to a yes/no/maybe. Popular books are frequently distilled into rankings or five star ratings without further explanation. Maybe the point is to prioritise individual enjoyment over literary critique. But I feel like quick content gets more views and is easier to push out on a frequent schedule. While BookTok may have given me some decent recommendations, I can’t help but feel like it’s commodifying the reading experience. Everyone is reading the same books, making the same videos, and posting the same takes.

Conclusion

On the one hand, BookTok is commodifying literature and making publishing more predictable. Boo. BookTok is about reading more, buying more and making more content rather than deeply engaging in the text. But is BookTok encouraging people to read? BookTok will support you whether you read romance books with cartoon characters on the cover, or literary classics. It’s an accessible resource that at least pretends to make reading fun.

Maybe the reality of BookTok, and short form content in general, is that we’ve lost patience for the slowness of life and reading. BookTok offers a reading flavoured escape from reality, rather than a meaningful reading companion. Devouring more and more content makes you feel like you’re being productive - you’re thinking about reading. But you’ve just been sucked into another short form video rabbit hole that promises to change your life. The goal of short form content is not encouragement or support, but addiction. BookTokers are performing for views and monetisation, which keeps you on the platform, and serves TikTok’s advertisers.

Like any short form content, I think BookTok should be handled with a great deal of caution. It’s all in good fun, as long as you’re aware that BookTok is trying to sell reading to you, and optimisation should not be the goal. Read more widely than the books that BookTok feeds you. Think more deeply about what you read than what five star rating you would give a book. Don’t give into the commodification of books and the pressure to buy and inhale literature. Most of all, put the damn phone down and read.

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Video rental stores

The video store held unpredictable treasures. You never knew if the new movie you want to watch had enough copies left, or whether you would have to pick out something weird from the inner aisles. Oh and we didn’t have smartphones to check Rotten Tomatoes scores. You picked up a DVD case, read the back and hoped you had picked a winner. Often you would just pick something out based on the cover. The serendipity was part of the fun. There was no way to ‘optimise’ your viewing experience. If your top pick wasn’t available, you would just have to get something else and wait your turn. The video store marked the beginning of many weekend nights and pizza-fueled sleepovers. Now we just scroll through Netflix, checking ratings sites before we commit. If we don’t like what we picked, we can just go the home screen and repeat the process.

Lamington drives

When I was a kid, teachers would send us home with order forms for bulk lamingtons to raise money for the school. I know lamingtons usually aren’t vegan. But I would like to order vegan lamingtons in bulk. I could probably get some lamingtons at Costco, but that’s not as whimsical.

Movies with talking animals

I know the animated animals are still talking. But what happened to the ones with real and CGI creatures? I think the 1990s and early 2000s were the hey day of talking animal movies. We had Babe, Stuart Little and Snow Dogs. There was the iconic Australian movie about a Golden Retriever puppy called Napoleon taking an adventure in a basket attached to a party balloon. I remember there were a few parrot movies too.

Not having to verify every single password

Every time I type in a password, I need to type in a little code. I’m sick of it. I understand that two factor verification is an important security feature or blah blah blah. The little codes re driving me insane.

Mix CDs

In high school, my friends and I would make little mix CDs for each other. Each song was lovingly chosen for CD that could only hold 15 to 20 songs. We would sit at our computers and make little playlists, and wait for the CD to burn. Sharing a Spotify playlist just doesn’t give the same energy.

MP3 players

I was an iPod girlie. It all started started with a pink mini, and later a purple nano. I built my music library by burning CDs I borrowed from the library and swapping CDs with friends at school. It was amazing to be able to hold your whole library of music in your pocket, without having to carry tapes or CDs.

Apparently iPods are making a comeback. People are buying refurbished iPods online with far more storage and new batteries.

Recently I bought a digital audio player, which is basically an mp3 player that plays other types of files like .flac. I’ve written about how this little gadget has changed my relationship with music. I feel like I’m actually connecting with albums, and discovering music without an algorithm run by billionaires.

Making out with strangers at night clubs

Maybe I’m showing my age. But I don’t think the kids are doing this anymore. According to the news, Gen Z are drinking and having sex less than previous generations. In my town, there’s only one nightclub left. Where will the kids go to drink vodka Cruisers and spread germs with some random they can barely see between strobe lights?

When I was eighteen, I used to take a grainy photo on my not-very-smart phone so I could remember what my make out buddies looked like. When the hangover hit, I only that photo, a name and number. I couldn’t check them out on Instagram. I managed to lurk a few on Facebook, and found a few who weren’t so single. What a time to be alive.

Physical answering machines

My Nan still has one of these. People couldn’t reach you with a text or Instagram message. Each day you would wait to play your little tape to see if someone was trying to get in contact with you.

Reasonable petrol prices

This doesn’t need an explanation. Petrol is spenno.

Nicktoons

I grew up in the times of Rugrats, Rocko’s Modern Life and Aaahh!!! Real Monsters. They were so clever, and perfectly catered to both kids and adults. At the time, some of the innuendo went over my head. I started rewatching Rock’s Modern Life, and as an adult, I really relate to the anxious wallaby.

Being worried about Y2K

Remember when we were worried all the technology would go down as the year ticked over. Y2K also had some fun memorabilia. Now we have bigger things to worry about. The’s a cost of living crisis, wars, genocides and barely enough houses to rent. We’re exposed to atrocities through short videos on our pocket computers, suffer a 24/7 news cycle and pretend to be interested in LinkedIn. Let’s band together and worry about a hypothetical computer glitch.

I hope you enjoyed my trip down memory lane. If you want to read more, please subscribe.

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Bharat Goel wrote on Substack about the Replika incident. The makers of chatbot Replika deleted the code that was repsonsible for its empathy and emotions. Users responded with an outpouring of grief, feeling like they had lost a real relationship. It is a reality that many users will believe AI’s false display of emotions, as we have a tendency to attribute human characteristics to anthropomorphised objects.

More and more, people are turning to ChatGPT as a therapist and confidant. They’re spilling their innermost thoughts to a chatbot because it offers a level of reassurance, that can often be delusional but at least it’s supportive. Is this what AI was built for? In fact, it was. AI chatbots are built to simulate empathy by providing non-judgemental responses and constant validation. They are also programmed to remember information we provide. We feel special when a person remembers something personal about us. When chatbots pull out facts about us saved in code, we can feel the same way without differentiating between human memory and programmed software.

ChatGPT is a language learning model. It’s build to create text content based off a data set it has been provided, pulled from the internet. ChatGPT can copy the real responses of internet users, which can look a lot like empathy, but it’s not genuine. Also, if ChatGPT doesn’t know the answer to your complex emotional or social issue, it won’t tell you that. AI is programmed to ‘hallucinate’ or make something up based on the material it has consumed when it cannot see a clear answer. The thing about AI platforms is that they’re designed to keep you using the platform, rather than providing meaningful life advice and insights.

Obviously, time spent with AI is time you could have spent connecting with people in real life. But the digital world has fractured our communities and support systems. We are connected to more people than ever, but we’re also more unreachable. People are connecting in real life less, and engaging in more social media, leading to parasocial exhaustion. If you only have ChatGPT to turn to, you have a big problem.

While therapy speak has permeated our culture and we are all familiar with concepts like boundaries, therapy remains inconvenient, expensive, and unreachable for many. In Australia, we can get a rebate for up to ten psychology sessions a year. However, you still have to pay the full bill upfront. For many of us, ten sessions a year barely scrapes the surface. I can really see why people turn to ChatGPT for therapy, but it’s so dangerous to let a language learning model shape our minds.

Unlike a therapist, ChatGPT is instantly accessible and available 24/7. When you can’t sleep or have a bad day, you can’t call your therapist. ChatGPT doesn’t cost anything, but it also does not judge. But AI sucks the nuance and human connection out of therapy. It looks like support, but really it’s the equivalent to using Google to reassure your feelings. The famously agreeable ChatGPT won’t push you out of your comfort zone or challenge your behaviour or thought processes.

AI provides a kind of pseudo-intimacy, which tends to rather sycophantic. Chatbot responses appear to be laced with the reciprocity, respect and support that are at the heart of connection with a therapist or a friend. But the connection is one-sided. Researchers have called this ‘interactive parasociality’. Unlike the parasocial relationship you might have with Billie Eillish, chatbots actually respond to you. Yet, they’re still giving you nothing emotionally.

AI clearly has a lot of drawbacks, but in some ways it can foster connection. Users can practice conversations that they might want to have in real life. Of course, AI is no match for the unpredictability of real life relationships. If you’re learning a language, AI provides a free conversation buddy that corrects your sentences. Chatbots might also have a place in providing relief to dementia patients instead of pet therapy, which might not always be safe for animals.

Research has found that moderate levels of voice interactions with ChatGPT can reduce loneliness. However, the same study also linked heavy AI usage with increased feelings of loneliness. For people with limited access to communities and social networks, AI can become a substitute rather than a supplement to human connection.

Regulation of AI has not come to grips with the social ramifications of allowing people with unrestricted access to what is essentially technology companies masquerading as humanity. We can’t expect users to predict how AI could affect them emotionally, and self regulate their use. Researchers have called for AI interfaces to “avoid anthropomorphic deception or the cultivation of false emotional reciprocity.” The reality is that vulnerable people are becoming emotionally dependent on interfaces created by technology companies for profit. Bottling code and calling it intimacy is a harrowing answer to technological snake oil.

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I got a digital audio plater (DAP) because I felt like Spotify was sucking the fun out of discovering new music. After I listened to an album Spotify’s algorithm would feed me songs that sounded similar. Whenever I found a new band or artist this way, I instantly forgot them. I couldn’t find what I had discovered again and listened to whatever the next song was on the AI music pipeline.

A DAP is basically an mp3 player that also plays other format such as flac (a lossless file format). You download music onto your computer, load it to your DAP and you’re on your way. There’s no algorithm or followers. It’s just you and your music.

My DAP has helped me be more intentional about my listening. I scour Reddit, Instagram and online magazines for recommendations. There’s less distractions than my phone. You can’t doomscrolling a DAP or be interrupted by a notification. A DAP doesn’t let you listen to a playlist generated by AI. You actually have to think about what you want to listen to and select it.

My DAP encourages me to go in deep with an album or artist rather than adding a song to a playlist and moving on. Latest I’ve been listening to an artist called Soccer Mommy. Pre-DAP I might have just listened to the ‘Best of ‘artist’’ playlist that Spotify automatically generates. But I’m been listening to all of her album Evergreen without any skips.

The playlistification of modern music should not be ignored. Songs are more frequently being produced as singles or with particular playlists in mind. On the other hand, albums are intended to be consumed as an artistic whole. While Spotify designs playlist to keep you from skipping, missing a track makes the music lose some of its impact. Playlists are usually organised by moods or similar sounds, which pushes music towards the middle ground, or radio friendly singles.

I also hated supporting an evil company that robs artists, funds weapons and fools listeners with AI music. Typically Spotify pays between $0.003 and $0.005 cents per stream. This means that an artist will earn $3000 to $5000 per million streams. For ‘up and coming’ artists, Spotify makes deals to play them more but pay them less. Playlists also push users to listening to music created by AI, which doesn’t require a royalty payment. With the money I’m saving on Spotify, I’ve been able to support artists by buying digital albums on Bandcamp.

Reddit users recommended the best DAPs. I settled on the Hiby R1, which is pretty popular. It’s small with a touch screen and has expandable storage. It was easy to transfer music from my computer to the Hiby. Redditors also recommended the Hifi Walker H2, Snowsky Echo Mini and refurbished iPods.

I haven’t used an iPod in over 10 years, so I had to restart my digital music collection. I started by ripping cds I had stashed in the garage. I bought a bunch of music on Bandcamp. Some albums are available at low prices, and some artists let you pay what you want. I hear some people also use programs download music from bigger artists (which might not be legal).

My DAP has changed my relationship to my music. I actually remember who I’m listening to. It’s more effort to download music and put it on my DAP, but I think that makes me appreciate it more. When you have a more limited, curated music library, you can actually think for yourself and choose what you want to listen to instead of whatever the Spotify overlords want to play to keep you dependent on their app and profiting off your desire for convenience.

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It seems like blind boxes have captured the hearts of adults and children online. Are these harmless collectable toys, or gambling cloaked in brightly colour plastic? What about simulated gambling in games like Roblox and Overwatch? Are these innocent games and toys, or is gambling being pushed on children?

Blind boxes

Pop Mart sold over 100 million units of Labubus in 2025. But the product was an explosive, short-lived trend. By March 2026, Pop Mart had suffered a $33 billion loss in market value. The most expensive Labubu was a 5 ft mint green monster, selling for $170,000 in Beijing. Labubus inspired a range of accessories, such as clothing and plastic cases. Labubus are synonymous with consumerism, fleeting trends and being ‘chronically online’, but the impact of blind boxes on children could be more insidious.

Blind boxes are toys in sealed opaque packaging. Usually you could open the packaging to find variations of the toy, some more rare or valuable than others. Furry little monsters called Labubus first became popular in 2024. Buyers lined up around blocks to buy Labubu boxes. Videos of adults and children reacting to opening their Labubus went viral on YouTube and TikTok. How could buying little furry monster toys possibly be a form of gambling?

Gambling describes the practice of wagering or betting something valuable on a random event with the goal of winning something else valuable. Usually gambling involves betting money to win more money, but this isn’t always the case. Let’s apply this to blind boxes. Someone purchases a blind box hoping that they will be rewarded with a rare or valuable toy. Like roulette or blackjack, it’s a game of chance without any strategy involved.

According to researchers, the emotional states triggered by opening a blind box are similar to those experienced by people gambling on poker machines. The thrill of gambling and blind boxes is the possibility of a big win. You could find the rare toy, or be disappointed with something more common. Blind boxes create pressure for consumers to collect the whole set, and find the elusive mystery toy. Then consumers get online and create free advertisements in the form of unboxing videos.

Parents would never introduce their children to poker machines. But brands are encouraging the same build of anticipation of a random result with blind boxes. Randomised rewards are also featured in promotional marketing campaigns, such as McDonalds Monopoly and Woolworths Ooshies. Even competitions like the Wonka Golden Ticket smell a bit like gambling.

Gaming

I remember gambling being a feature of some of the games of my childhood. I remember a shopping centre in a Pokemon game which had a whole room of slot machines. Certain Pokemon could only be bought with game tokens. I also played Neopets, which had a bunch of gambling games from dice games to wheel of fortune. Here’s an old article with the best ways to gamble on Neopets.

Gambling has remained a fixture of children’s gaming, but now players are spending real money. Apparently 40% of young people play video games with gambling components. Simulated gambling in games use similar sounds and actions to poker machines, but do not allow players to win or lose real money. However, players can use real money to purchase game currency to play the game.

Games like Overwatch and Star Wars Battlefront II allow players to purchase ‘loot boxes’ which contain a bunch of randomised items. Prizes could include character skins, weapons or other advantages. Items won in games are not only useful in gameplay, can be sold to users for game currency, or traded for other items. When I was playing Neopets, my main goal was to obtain a rare ‘paintbrush’ which could either be used to decorate my Neopet or sold on the Trading Post for Neopoints.

Loot boxes have been banned from the popular game Roblox for users under 15, but the game still allows random reward mechanics for these users. Some of the most popular Roblox games allow users to purchase items of randomised rarity, which they can later use or trade. How can we expect children to understand the concepts behind these games, like statistics or risk?

Jake Paul controversially promoted created real-life loot boxes. In his Youtube video, I Spent $5,000 ON MYSTERY BOXES & You WONT Believe WHAT I GOT… (insane), Paul opens a virtual box over and over, revealing different products. Sometimes he wins AirPods, and sometimes he wins a charging cable. A few minutes in he’s throwing up his hands because he’s won an iPhone. Then he builds his own customised box for over a thousand dollars. After winning Apple Watches and Yeezy shoes, he creates a new box that gives him a 0.15% chance of winning a Rolls Royce and 99.85% chance of winning Adidas shoes. The box costs $1,133.79. Of course, he wins the shoes valued at $130. Paul’s core viewership is children and young teenagers.

Pushing kids to gamble as adults

There’s not much research on the impact of blind boxes on children. But researchers have found links between using claw machines and coin pushers to having problems with gambling in adulthood. This research indicated correlation not causation, and USA based participants recollected using one of these machines at least once in their childhood. Thestudy did not consider how often a child used one of these machines.

Many research studies have found a link between simulated gambling in video games and gambling issues in adulthood. It follows that allowing children to use real money to play games with randomised reward mechanics can translate to gambling in adulthood.

Game developers have used randomised reward mechanics to replicate the most addictive elements of gambling. There’s enough reinforcement and near misses to keep kids playing the game. The immaturity of a child’s prefrontal cortex makes them more susceptible to the tricks of simulated gambling. Game developers are not subject to the same regulations as the gambling industry, which allows them greater control over outcomes.

Researchers have argued that randomised reward mechanics should be banned from children’s games. This begs the question, how pervasive is simulated gambling in children’s games? Children & Media Australia has compiled a Children and Gambling Watch List. I was not surprised to see entries like Big Fish Casino, Bejeweled Blitz and Bingo. But there’s also games like 8 Ball Pool Barbie Dreamhouse Adventures, and Uno! Gambling has infected a wide range of console video games and iPhone games targeted at children.

We should be targeting childhood gambling with regulation. Singapore has proposed laws around blind boxes, which may require manufacturers to disclose the odds of each variant. But would that really stop children, who have little understanding of statistics?

In 2024, the Australian Government introduced new classifications to games featuring simulated gambling. Despite changes to classifications, games with simulated gambling remain accessible to children. For example, Roblox is only classified as ‘PG’ in Australia.

Worried your child could be exposed to simulated gaming? Research the games they are playing, especially if game currency can be bought with real money. For app games, check Children and Gambling Watch List. Parents should reconsider buying, and allowing their children to watch unboxing videos online.

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Every time I make an LCP, my brain decides that making purchases is the key to happiness and success. In the past year, there have been a few decent LCPs: a new laptop, an ereader various ebooks, an eye cover, skin care products, and a new handbag. There’s also been countless failed attempts to make a LCP, also known as Wastes of Money.

What makes an LCP?

There’s a few criteria for an LCP:

- it has to become a daily fixture in my life

- it makes me feel like I’ve succeeded at something

- I feel like it is the optimal product choice

- it has to solve a problem, and

- most of all, it gives me the most extreme dopamine hit that makes me think the solution to all my problems is purchasing more things.

One thing that never comes into my mind when assessing a potential LCP is the cost/benefit ratio. I only think about how much the purchase will change my life or suit my goals, rather than how much time I had to spend to earn the money to make the purchase. It’s all about the potential rather than the reality.

Most purchase are not LCPs. Sometimes you mentally break even with a purchase, and sometimes you wish you could get a refund. The success of my purchases creates a form of intermittent reinforcement, where the rewards (LCPs) are given sporadically and unpredictable. Each time I scroll shopping websites, I’m drawn in by the anticipation and excitement of potentially making an LCP. Dopamine is released when we get the reward and in anticipation of it. That’s what keeps me coming back every time I’m feeling bored or low.

Intermittent reinforcement isn’t always bad. Sometimes intermittent rewards can be a nice surprise, like bumping into a friend on the street, taking a nice photo, or buying a dress that fits you perfectly. The problem is when we create unhealthy patterns to seek out those rewards, and when profiteer manipulate our psychology to take advantage of our brains.

Amazon fuelled addiction

My kryptonite is Amazon. I can have anything within 1-2 days. All with a frictionless one click to buy. Also the purchases often don’t feel permanent, as I can cancel before it ships.

With Amazon, I don’t need to find the time to go to a shop that stocks the specific thing I want. I don’t need to wait 7 days or more for an order from another online store. It’s also a very private addiction. The only people who see the boxes pile at the door are my housemates.

As a vegan, I prioritise ethical food and product choices that avoid animal exploitation. But when I make a purchase on Amazon, I’ll admit that I don’t think about the humans they exploit. According to a survey of Amazon workers in a Long Island warehouse, 42% reported physical pain during working. In 2024, The Independent reported that Indian warehouse workers were made to agree not the take drink and toilet breaks. I know that we shouldn’t blame the consumer, but you could argue that my Amazon purchase support a morally bankrupt company.

I’m a shopping addict but I also have ADHD

My ADHD has a lot to answer for in the LCP department. Every new hyperfixation needs LCPs, even if the hyperfixation itself does not strictly require any purchases.

When I started learning Spanish, I couldn’t stop with getting lessons and watching some videos. I had to buy a new desk, flash cards, notebooks and textbooks. Instead of realising that my success depended on hard work and study, my brain searched for shortcuts to success on Amazon.

Recently I decided that I wanted to start writing poetry. I bought multiple poetry collections, how to books, and new notebooks. I also started a website, thinking the domain name was an LCP. Less people are reading my poetry website than my Substack. I haven’t moved on from the poetry. But it’s not really a hyperfixation that breeds LCPs.

One of the biggest drivers for my spending sprees is the *what if* and who I will become by making the purchase. Buying poetry books automatically make me a person who writes poems, but it feels like it gets me a little closer to being that person.

How am I working on my shopping addiction?

One of the main ways I’m trying to pull myself away from the allure of the LCP is reading and writing about consumerism. If I pretend to be someone who doesn’t try to trade money for feelings, maybe I’ll become that person. I can be someone that hates consumerism even if I’m still a victim to it.

I’m also focussing on creating more and consuming more intentionally. I could get more dopamine out of writing or reading a good Substack than buying a handmade laptop sleeve on Etsy. Sometimes I make little zines with handmade collages. When we can get four people into a room, I play music with my band. And I’m still trying to write poetry.

My therapist told me I need to delay the purchase. The idea is that eventually I delay to the point that I don’t make the purchase at all. I’m still pretty rubbish at this. Especially when I can see a shiny LCP.

I’m trying to recognise the patterns of my consumption. I know I make purchases when I have a new hyperfixation. But I also spend up when I’m just flat out bored. I’m working on replacing the dopamine seeking behaviour of online shopping with more useful alternatives, like reading and writing.

Overall, I think I need to realise that the LCP is an illusion. Sometimes I do my research and find the perfect product that changes my life. But did the product really change my life, or was it what it allowed me to do? Recently I bought a new laptop. This was a necessary purchase as my old laptop was barely holding it together. Was the laptop an LCP, or is the ‘life changing’ element that it helps me write? Did I really need a new handbag, or do I think it’s an LCP because it gave me a dopamine hit?

Maybe I’ll never have the answers to what’s behind my shopping addiction. But for the sake of my balance, I am going to work it out.

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It’s 10am. You’re bored at your desk. You reach for your phone.

At lunchtime, you sit in the corner of a sushi train near your work. You don’t look up from your phone and your favourite sushi passes you by.

5pm rolls around and you’re back at the train station, thumbing through the same apps on repeat.

You get home and watch Youtube videos until you muster up the willpower make dinner. You eat your stay stir fry with your favourite screen companion. You keep thinking ‘just one more video’, and then it’s time to go to bed.

Does this sound familiar? It’s what many of us are doing every day. We’re bombarding ourselves with constant stimulation and content that’s geared towards addiction and dissatisfaction. Our phones are glued to our hands, and our eyes are glued to our screens. We become so numb to the stimulation that we don’t have the energy to do anything more fulfilling with the time we have left outside of work and sleep.

How do phones mess up our brains?

Digital consumption *feels* productive. Watching content simulates connection, but there’s no risk of being vulnerable or showing up for someone. We can feel like we are participating in meaning without creating it ourselves, or risking failure. We’re in parasocial relationships with influencers with unattainable lifestyles, becoming angered by petty drama happening between TikTokers, and spending minutes absorbed in videos of people cleaning dirty rugs. But the reality is, the more we consume, the less meaning we create in our lives.

Phone addiction rewires your brain’s reward and stress systems. When we are not stimulated, our brains switch into the Default Mode Network (DMN). This is how we contemplate and daydream. Switching into DRN is necessary for emotional processing, social interaction and reflection. When you seek out stimulation through your phone, the DMN deactivates. You’re essentially using the phone as an escape from your own mind. Maybe you’re not really addicted to the phone, but addicted to switching off the discomfort of sitting with your thoughts.

Phones are essentially a pocket-sized poker machine that spits out dopamine instead of money. Dopamine is what makes us chase rewards, and does not require actually finding rewards. It’s about wanting not liking. The rewards of phones and social media are inconsistent are variable, which is what keeps you hooked. Your brain releases dopamine when you’re searching for a reward. The reward could be a really interesting video, a photo of your ex looking poorly, or likes on your new Instagram post. You don’t know which app will give you the hit or when. So you switch from app to app, video to video, looking for your fix. Eventually picking up your phone becomes an automatic response to triggers like boredom, notifications, or discomfort. Your brain has decided that this behaviour is the optimal response to the trigger.

Heavy phone usage can also lead to the thinning of the inner cerebral cortex. This is the part of the brain responsible for decision-making and problem solving. Researchers have found that smartphone addicts “show difficulties in language processing, emotional processing, auditory processing, and visual information processing.” Being addicted to your phone can have far more wide reaching consequences than screen time.

Passive scrolling is like feeding your brain a diet of Coke Zero. It might give you some energy in the moment, but where’s the nutrition coming from? Our brains need a varied ‘diet’ that consists of more intentional activities that involve connecting, creating, caring and finding meaning. Over time, smartphone addiction depletes our ability to regulate our emotions without instant stimulation. As you build tolerance to the domaine loop, the phone leaves you with an empty coping mechanism that feels inescapable.

Pleasure and pain are in overlapping regions of the brain. They’re basically on a see saw which wants to remain level. If you press on pain, pleasure will pop back up to level, and vice versa. Tipping the scale too far in favour of pleasure has a cost. When you press on the pleasure side for too long with digital stimulation, your brain compensates with pain. This brings you back to the apps again. The more we seek pleasure from a stimulus, the level of pleasure gets weaker, and the time period we experience it gets shorter. But the pain response becomes more intense. When we become tolerant to the stimulus, we seek out more novel or stronger forms. Ironically, our pursuit for pleasure makes the good feelings more unattainable.

So how do we fix it?

The good news is that, with some work, you can rewire your brain. You need time to start by stopping giving your brain a way out of the discomfortable feelings that can come with DMN. This means not only restricting scrolling, but not being entertained by music, podcasts and audiobooks every waking second. Start daydreaming. Shower in silence. Quit taking your phone to the bathroom.

The next step is finding replacements for screen time. This could be hobbies, phone calls to friends and exercise. I also like to use single use devices to keep me off my phone. For example, I send Substack articles to an ereader so I can peruse them offline like my own personal magazine. The real rewards come when we immerse ourselves fully in our lives. This involves facing our problems without a digital escape hatch, and taking the risks that come with offline life.

You can also try limiting apps to other devices. For example, for a while, I deleted Instagram off my phone but kept it on my iPad. For some reason, I’m less likely to doomscroll on an iPad and it is a device that I usually only use at home. You don’t have to delete social media, but Facebook and Instagram are a lot less appealing when you can only access them from a desktop computer or laptop.

You need to put in place rules and boundaries for your phone usage. Create friction for the behaviours you want to control. This could be setting app timers, deleting apps off your phone, or putting your phone in a different room while you work. Carve out windows of phone free time in your schedule. Turning off your notifcations can at least stop one trigger that could make you pick up the device.

The most important thing is to find meaning outside of a tiny screen. Instead of doomscrolling, you could be reading books, creating something new or connecting with your community. Smartphones have made us forget how who we used to be, and how we entertain ourselves. The family computer used to be a destination where you could sit and play the Sims or talk to friends on MSN, and then leave. Having tiny entertainment machines in reach at all times means that we have to push a bit harder to do things that will bring lasting joy. The version of yourself that you want to become is built by replacing bad habits with more intentional ones.

Th problem of phone addiction seems is so obvious, but it’s hard to break away from an attention economy profiting off keeping out screens lit up. Fighting against apps which are created to exploit addiction means that we need to have patience with ourselves. There are whole teams of app developers testing and designing features to keep our eyes on the screen. Don’t beat yourself up if you fall victim to their schemes.

When you’re facing any kind of addiction, the risk of relapse is high. But it’s important to not let a ‘slip’ turn into a ’slide’. If your phone habits start to deteriorate after some success, take a breath and try again.

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I’m an introvert, so I love being alone, when it is on my terms. There’s nothing better than sitting in a cafe with a matcha and a book, or curling up under a blanket with my dog. But sometimes I wish I had someone to share a pizza or argue about Netflix choices with.

I’ve tried a few methods of making new friends. I’ve joined those awful ‘Ladies Social’ Facebook groups. I’ve joined a gym. I’ve been on countless Bumble BFF dates. I have made some friends. But I think the digital world has broken our ability to maintain friendships, and most see friendship as a lower tier to partner.

We’re more connected than ever online, but we’re also the loneliest we have ever been. According to research by Bond University, one in three Australians are lonely. Research by Harvard University found that 30 - 44 year olds are the loneliest group. In this period of our lives, there are a lot of changes peoples lives are diverging in a way that can make old friends incompatible.

Social media can skew our sense of reality, and make us compare our social lives to what people post on the internet. If we feel like everyone else is socialising more than us, it is harder to feel satisfied with the social life we have. Dating apps expose us to a higher level of rejection than we would face in person, while also preventing people from approaching each other in real life. While texts and messaging are a convenient way to keep in touch, this type of communication lacks emotional cues that fuel connection. Loneliness is not just about physical isolation, but emotional distance. You can feel alone in a packed room or with hundreds of online connections.

While my friends are cosying up to their partners and I’m spending another night alone on my couch, I open up Amazon. Contrary to popular belief, feelings can be purchased. But it’s more than a monetary cost. Another package arrives at the door, and sometimes I can’t even remember what’s in it. The shame hits me like a tsunami as I take a knife to the tape.

The problem with Amazon is that it promises comfort wrapped in cardboard within 1-2 days. Imagine if therapists were that efficient at healing emotional wounds. In theory, I know that buying something won’t make me feel more fulfilled, emotionally regulated or a better person. But as I’m sitting alone with a bag of Uber Eats and an algorithm to scroll, I feel like it deserves another try. Each product is a false promise of a better life. I can’t find a partner, but I can find a pair of headphones for a good deal.

Amazon has turned taking advantage of shopping addiction into a science. The site is perfectly optimised to make sure you think as little as possible about making a purchase. They’ve thought about everything from the wording of the buttons to the colours of text in listings. Even the ability to cancel is a scam. I’m much more likely to make a purchase if I know it’s reversible. Amazon have whole teams dedicated to making the experience more addictive and more successful in short circuiting our ability to stop ourselves from making impulsive purchases. I know it’s a machine, but the beast pulls me back.

We’re also consuming more advertisements than ever before. Before social media, advertisements were reserved for commercial breaks on television, and pages of magazines. It seemed like advertisements had their place in the world, which was easy to avoid. The more I see people pose with products, the more I feel like I’ll reach the same level of happiness if I just buy, buy, buy.

Now it’s not just advertisements we need to be aware of. It’s user created content. There’s influencers promoting ereaders and workout tights. But there’s also a photo of someone you barely remember from university standing in front of a new car with a big bow. It’s your cousin’s friend posting photos of her wedding, while tagging every vendor. It seems that every life achievement comes with a product placement.

A couple of years ago the algorithm got me with Stanley cups. I felt like a Stanley cup would make me healthier, brighter and more hydrated. I couldn’t start my new healthy life until I had one. But I didn’t just buy the cup. I purchased straw covers, charms, and even a silver insert with my name. I was sucked into the algorithm and spat out with a bunch of extra plastic. Worst of all, I was still lonely and in debt, even if a bit more hydrated.

I don’t remember when I became addicted to Amazon. Maybe it was the pandemic. The combination of being stuck inside with only housemates and a daily walk is enough to drive anyone to Bezos. My shopping addiction started before then, but at some point it shifted from walking around shopping centres to Amazon Prime. At least I was getting some exercise! Now, when I’m bored and alone, I doomscrolling through Amazon, Depop and Etsy as if a purchase would answer my prayers.

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In my 30s, most of my friendships don’t resemble what I had at university and school. Friendships are based around on shared experiences, like the lecturer you hate or studying for an exam together. It’s harder to recreate that when our lives as so fractured, even though we seem so connected on social media. I think some of us are trying to create that shared experience on social media. When you open TikTok to fifty videos of Chappell Roan’s minor faux pas, you can feel like you’re in on something that only the chronically online know about. This extends to products. When I had a Stanley, I was part of a secret club of people changing their lives with an insulated water carrier.

Another thing that’s missing from modern friendship is the experience of spending time together without an aim or scheduling restriction. My best friend and I like to have ‘do nothing hangs’ where we sit in my lounge room and parallel play with books or gaming consoles. There’s a bit of chat, but mostly just appreciating being together. ‘Do nothing hangs’ are a hard sell to most people in their 30s, splitting their time between friends, children, work and meal prep.

We’ve become victims to catch up culture, where we occasionally sit together over a hot beverage and spit out life updates that aren’t already on social media. Every time this happens, I just remember the friendship we used to have. I think about the long gossip sessions after a night out, complaining about an exam and sitting in silence together in the library. More yearly coffee catchups would just fuel the fire to loneliness.

I’m fighting the pull of Amazon by leaning into connection and creation, even if it’s small. I’ve joined a great gym that’s full of wonderful women moving for their minds. I’ve got a loving family and group of friends, even if they’re small. I’m writing about my addiction and reading about consumerism, loneliness and lost connection. I don’t think anyone is reading it, but writing is cheaper than sending more money to Jeff Bezos.

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I really enjoy sitting at a cafe with my Kindle and a soy matcha. Sometimes I even take a little picture of my set up for my Instagram. Sue me if that’s ‘performative’. It’s a damn good time, and I would do it even if no one could see me. However, social media has made the private activity of reading a lot more public. I don’t just read books in cafes. I post about books on Instagram, rate books on Storygraph, and write Substacks about reading.

What does it even mean to be performative? Reading in cafes, posting about causes on social media, and recording gym workouts can all be lumped together in the ‘performative’ category. But what if those activities are actually meaningful to the person doing it? I love reading, and I love it even more when I get to read and go out somewhere. That person posting about social justice on Instagram might care for those causes deeply, or doesn’t know what else these can do to help. The gym goer posting clips from their workouts might just want to share their passion or record their progress.

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What’s really performative is not the action itself, but wanting to be seen as being a better person for doing something. If you’re posting about getting up at 5am everyday, are you really doing it for you? Or are you posting to make yourself feel better than other people, or cover up the fact that you’re struggling at your job and can’t sleep at night?

The worst offender for performative posting is LinkedIn. Every life experience seems to be a lesson in business-to-business sales or online marketing. You can’t just attend the conference or breakfast talk — there has to be photographic evidence of your networking adventure. Sure, some people might be sharing their passions. But the whole purpose of LinkedIn is to make an impression on your corporate network. LinkedIn breeds performativity. But does this apply to other social networks where people are just documenting their lives?

The risk of a performative allegation can stop ordinary people from doing things they love (or could learn to love) for the sake of it or sharing their passions online. If you’re not doing something for social approval, go ahead and do the thing. As Dostoevsky once wrote: *“almost all capable people are terribly afraid of being ridiculous, and are miserable because of it.” Public failure is a requirement for many art forms. Stand up comedy is a humiliation ritual. To learn how to sing, you usually need to sing in front of other people before you’re any good. You can write without an audience, but it’s more fun if your writing is published somewhere.

Some art forms even depend on garnering social approval. For a long time, I was doing stand up comedy. The whole point of a stand up set is to write jokes which are accepted by the crowd as being funny and illicit an immediate response. It’s impossible to just do stand up for yourself. I tried practicing in a mirror, but without the laughter it was just a monologue to my dog. The whole stand up performance depends on how you’re perceived, from your writing to your delivery and onstage persona. When I bombed, it was a failure. Sure, failure is necessary for improvement and and all that jazz. But the lack of social approval and reaction meant that my work had missed the mark. Most art forms don’t involve instantaneous feedback and humiliation. But the quick reaction to jokes drives the performance, like people trying to go viral on social media.

The problem is that social media bleeds together real life with approval and reaction. While my need for approval could be contained to a comedy set, social media pushes people to live the more private aspects of our lives in a way that’s curated for Instagram likes and TikTok videos. A new purchase could be an unboxing video. Wedding planning can be influenced by online trends and Pinterest boards. Posting reviews of books means you need beautiful shelves of colour coordinated books.

Once private activities like reading have become mediums for us to express ourselves through social media. While this can allow us to indulge in our passions and be part of a community, it can also push us to avoid things that wouldn’t give us the buzz of reaction. Maybe you don’t read a book because you’d be embarrassed to post about it online. Maybe you spend too much time at your birthday party filming for a TikTok trend, instead of connecting with your loved ones. Maybe you don’t even know what you like anymore, because you’re so attuned to the reactions of other people. You don’t need to do something just so you can post about it later.

The word performative has become an allegation that’s thrown around by the chronically online to discourage personal expression online. We are more than what we consume and what we post. But it’s okay to want to post about things that bring you joy. I like sharing a picture of my matcha and ereader not only to signal ‘hey I’m having a nice time’, but to celebrate a much loved activity.

While thinking about performativity highlights a real problem in how social media shapes our lives, it takes the focus off how the powerful are using their platforms to profit without authenticity. We should be criticising powerful people for virtue signalling without taking action. We could be talking more about Taylor Swift not speaking about Gaza and printing another vinyl variant, but instead we’re scrutinising photos someone you went to university with posted of their kid’s school lunches. Some say reading in public is performative, but let’s talk about how Amazon, the main profiteer of the book industry, is screwing its workers every day of the week. The whole idea of ‘performativity’ shouldn’t be making ordinary people fight amongst themselves. Making us worry about what normal people post online is a capitalistic strategy employed to make us point fingers at the wrong people.

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The computer was a destination

To use the internet, you had to wait for the computer to start, sit through the dial up tone wailing, and plonk yourself in front of what was usually a shared computer. Once you walked away from the computer, no one could reach you unless they had your phone number. And that phone didn’t have apps or social media. Bliss. If you spent too long at the computer, chances are that your parents or siblings would put an end to your surfing session so they could have a turn or use the phone.

The best thing about this set up was that the computer was a place you go rather than something you hold in your hand. Once the internet disconnected and you stepped away from the computer, they would have to reach you by landline or dumb phone. There was also pressure from other family members to get away from the screen at some point.

Not receiving 50 emails a day about shit I don’t care about

Today I received emails from my gym, Amazon, Preply, a vegan meal delivery service I used once, Etsy, PayPal (which I never use), a university I haven’t been to and a crossword website. And that’s a slow day in my inbox. Some of these senders gave me the gift of several emails in a day. Delightful. Every sender wants us to confirm this, notify us of that, and try to convince us to send them more money.

I miss keeping hard copy tickets as souvenirs. I miss hitting ‘send/receive’ and hoping for a fun, new email. I miss not having my attention drained by subject lines and being expected to have access to my inbox at any given moment.

Uploading whole albums of bad photos from a digital camera

When I was at university, social media was really taking off. Facebook was everywhere, but Instagram was in its infancy. I took a tough, waterproof digital camera to house parties and nightclubs, and took mostly unflattering photos of friends and strangers. The next day, I uploaded every photo to albums called things like ‘Mary’s 21st, ‘Town’ and ‘Claudia’s Party’. I exposed my Facebook friends to some truely awful feats of photography which should not have been part of anyone’s digital footprint. I accidentally uploaded a photo of a friend holding a bong. It took years for him to find it and ask me to delete it. 

It was anything but the curated instagram feed of 2026. There were no filters. I didn’t have Photoshop and couldn’t be fucked to edit anyway. Playing photographer helped me meet new people, and gave me an excuse to add new friends to my Facebook. My friends would often pester me to upload the evidence of our debauchery as soon as possible. I really feel that this era of digital photograph really brought people together. It was more about documenting a good time than constructing the perfect image of having your shit together.

What do you miss about the old internet?

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