Category Archives: Essays

Remembering the Basics

A few weeks ago I was feeling pretty down. Now, there were definitely other reasons for my low mood, but after a little while I realized that part of the problem was I’d been neglecting things like eating food, drinking water, and sleeping.

Remembering to do those things didn’t make my problems disappear. But it definitely made it easier to handle them!

Here’s the thing: food, water, and sleep are the fundamentals of self-care. They’re the very first things you should try when there’s a problem, like making sure an appliance that’s not working is plugged in, or checking to see if caps lock is on when your password isn’t working. So why did I neglect them for so long when I needed them so badly?

Unfortunately, it wasn’t a coincidence.

There’s a common type of advice in nearly every field that boils down to something like “don’t neglect the basics.” In sports, it’s “keep your eye on the ball;” in business, there’s “make something people want;” in art, “practice makes perfect;” science has “test your hypotheses;” and in the rationality community we have “read the sequences.”1

Why is it so common to hear advice that basically boils down to “Hey, remember the very first things you learned? Y’know, all the easiest stuff that you’ve practiced a million times? Be sure not to forget it!” It seems like telling a Math Olympian not to forget that 2+2=4.

There are two reasons for this. The first is straightforward: the simplest and earliest lessons are also the most important. This is easiest to see in sports: if both you and your opponent have mastered the basics, the victor is determined by your mastery of the more advanced techniques.2 But if you flub the basics, your opponent can generally crush you without breaking a sweat.

“What does you in is not failure to apply some high-level, intricate, complicated technique. It’s overlooking the basics. Not keeping your eye on the ball.” -Jerry Cleaver (as quoted here)

The second reason is more subtle. When are you most likely to forget the basics? Probably not when you’re relaxed, well-rested, and focused–but if you’re under stress, pressed for time, tired, hungry, distracted? That’s when you’re most likely to make simple mistakes (like forgetting to drink water when you’re in a funk).

Of course, those are also the times when you’ll get the most benefit out of low-effort, high-impact fixes. Hence, the common advice.

So here’s my self-care tip of the day: don’t forget the basics. Stay hydrated, eat healthy, get rest, exercise as much as you’re able. Most importantly, when you know that forgetting the basics isn’t the main problem, take extra care to remember them anyway. It won’t make your problem go away, but it will make it easier to handle.

Joy and health to you all.


  1. You may be wondering why our “basics” is literally an entire alphabet of volumes. The answer should probably be its own essay, but the footnote version is that (a) rationality is such a young field that pretty much the whole thing is basics (there are no fancy high-level techniques, or at least very few), (b) the majority of those basics consist of un-learning habits and intuitions that are either inborn or cultural, and (c) the majority of what remains is stuff so basic that in other fields it’s learned in childhood–less “keep your eye on the ball” and more “a ‘ball’ is a spherical object, held in the hand and used for sport or play (though there are exceptions, notably…” ↩︎
  2. Actually, the dirty secret of televised sports is that the more exciting and high-level the game, the more likely it is that the outcome will be determined by sheer luck. Sufficiently advanced technique is indistinguishable from superstition. ↩︎

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The Past Is for the Future

What good are memories that only hold you back? The purpose of a memory is to inform you now, enrich you here, inspire you today; yesterday is a mere brick in the wall of the present, the house you live in.

To reminisce on the past is to be shaped by it. Are you taking the shape you desire? If your history leaves you misshapen, create a better one: tell yourself the story that has the happy ending. If a wall no longer serves your purpose, tear it down and lay the bricks anew–and if some are cracked or crumbling or toxic with rot, why keep them?

Forgetting is death, and death is scary–but not all death is bad. It’s no tragedy when life is lost, if that life is a malignant cancer; it is no real loss to lose a memory that’s only weighing you down.

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A List of My Favorite Integers

I know, I know, it’s the sexiest title you’ve read all year, but please keep your undies on. We’re in public.

  • 0 and 1 – Zero and one aren’t actually on my list of favorites, but I have to give them respect for essentially making all other numbers possible (and also out of professional obligation as a programmer).
  • 2 – Two is such an underrated number. It seems so plain and innocuous, but it does so much! It’s the first prime number, the base (binary) that makes computers possible, and the smallest whole number that makes possible multiplication, exponentiation, logarithms, and rationals! It’s small but mighty; if it were a character in a fantasy novel, I think it would be a dwarf.
  • 3 – Not a huge fan of three, but I really like multiples of three? I don’t know, man. I didn’t build this head, I just live in it.
  • 9 – Nine! Oh man, I love nine. It sort of seems like it should be prime, but it’s a perfect square! Kind of goth–like, at first it looks like it might murder you in your sleep, but then you get to know it and realize it’s actually really sweet. (Four is a square number too, but four is suuuuper boring. A square of nine has that nice little dot in the center–so much more aesthetically pleasing.) Nine is probably my favorite number overall.
  • 12 – Twelve has the charming, sophisticated air of someone with a lot of practice at being modest because they know they have a lot to be modest about. It has a lot of factors, so it makes an excellent base! You can divide it evenly by two, three, four, and six. Much more sensible than base-ten, which only has five and two as factors. It’s not just some math-nerd hypothetical, either: we actually use base twelve! Take a closer look at the next clock you see, or the next carton of eggs you buy.
  • 13 – Thirteen is considered unlucky in some cultures, but I think it’s handsome. So close to the extra-factorizeable twelve, yet it’s prime! Very chic.
  • 21 – Another one of those numbers that seems like it ought to be prime, but isn’t. I don’t care much for seven on its own, but when you combine it with three you get some interesting results.
  • 27 – The first cube after the mediocre eight; nine extended into the third dimension. Seductive, strong, complex but understated. Kind of reminds me of my spouse. I think if twenty seven were a person it would probably be non-binary and pansexual, too.
  • 60 – Sixty is that really fit, smart friend that everyone loves, and they’re sometimes a dick about it, but if you need their help they’ll show up without fail. It has even more factors than twelve! Sixty is probably the number base that super-intelligent space aliens would use. Just look at all the different ways you can slice this bad boy up: two, three, four, five, six, ten, twelve, fifteen, twenty, and thirty! Man, I’m getting hot just thinking about it. Oh, and in case you think this is another example of some obscure math nonsense that no one will ever use in real life? Take a second look at that clock…
  • 64 – Eight may be mediocre, but it gets a major glow-up when you square it. Sixty four is a little hyperactive, but in kind of an endearing way, like a dog. It just has a big heart, you know? (Personally, I think all the powers of two seem a little hyper. Like they’re constantly bouncing up and down on their toes, barely containing their urge to show off just how extra even they are. “Look, look! You can divide me in half eight times!” Sixty four is big enough to know it could show off, but small enough to be modest and without the inferiority complex of poor thirty two.)
  • 101 – Ahh, just look at it. So nice and symmetrical. And it’s prime! A lot like eleven, which almost made this list, but one-oh-one beats it out for mostly the same reason that nine is better than four and twenty seven is better than eight. There’s just something a little unsatisfying to me about a symmetry that pivots around an absence. I much prefer when there’s a thing in the middle.
  • 111 – Cute but weird, like a pug. Has the same nice symmetry as one hundred and one, plus it’s a pleasant repeated digit, and it’s another number that really seems like it should be prime, but isn’t. But then for some reason its factors are three and thirty seven–blech! Somehow that ugly, bizarro combination comes out super cute?

There aren’t many numbers bigger than one-eleven that stand out to me in particular, so I guess that’s it. Oh, wait! I almost forgot:

  • 69 – LOL

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Unbuffer

Well, my buffer is almost completely gone. On the other hand, I’m depressed! Wait, that’s not right. Let me try again:

I’ve got good news and bad news. The bad news is, my buffer’s gone. The good news is, there’s no good news. The–wait, shoot, that doesn’t work either.

How about this: I’m depressed, my buffer’s gone, the world’s ending, and I just made it through a really difficult ordeal. But at least I’m not proud of myself!

Hmm, still not quite right…

Okay, here we go: I’m depressed, falling behind at work, my buffer’s gone, my country is being turned into a dictatorship, my family’s risk of extermination rises with each passing day, AGI could arrive and turn the planet into goo any minute and people are wringing their hands over whether they’ll still have their jobs, and I’ve just made it through a very painful experience that I should feel proud of myself for facing, but I don’t.

HOWEVER.

I know I will be proud of myself someday.

I’m going to keep seeking–and spreading–as much joy as I can, right up until the last minute, whether that’s tomorrow or ten thousand years from now.

I’m going to keep fighting the fire even if it’s the whole world burning.

And although my buffer’s nearly gone, I’m still going to write. Even though it’s hard and everything I write sucks, I’ll still put something up here every day. And you know what? That’s something I do feel proud of.

And you know what else? I’ve realized that sometimes your garbage isn’t the things you create–sometimes it’s the things you do, the choices you make. But the good news (for real this time) is that your practice there will help you improve, too. If you’re feeling down on yourself for making a mistake, or if you took a risk and it backfired, remember this: the opposite of success isn’t failure, it’s giving up. The risks you paid the price for, the mistakes you’re ashamed to remember, the efforts that weren’t enough–you can’t get stronger without them. That doesn’t mean a stronger you will stop making mistakes or being hurt–quite the opposite! But without those failures, you’ll never grow.

Oh, and one more thing: if all that’s not enough to help you feel proud of yourself, I’m proud of you. Even if you don’t think your effort was worth any praise. Even if the results were lackluster. Even if it was a disaster! I’m proud of you for trying, and I know that even if you can’t imagine it now, you’ll choose to try again.

And so will I.

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SECRET CRUSH

We’ve been cleaning out our old storage unit lately, which means I’ve been rediscovering a lot of memorabilia and souvenirs (and baby clothes, and broken toys, and expired toiletries, and homework assignments from 20 years ago, and literal garbage…)

As you can imagine, there have been a few nostalgia bombs.

One of the treasures I uncovered is from high school, when I had a positively brobdingnagian crush that I was too much of a weenie to do anything about. For some reason, it was very important to me that no one ever find out who my SECRET CRUSH was–or, indeed, that I had a SECRET CRUSH at all. I wouldn’t even write their name down!

Well, except for one time. You see, I had this idea that since I couldn’t talk to them (I mean literally: I had trouble saying a single word to them even though we had all the same friends), I would confess my feelings in a letter.

Now, if you’re thinking that I wrote my SECRET CRUSH a mash note with the intent of doing something normal like, I don’t know, giving it to them–well, you better buckle up, ’cause the weenie train hasn’t even left the station.

Actually giving my crush the letter? Way too scary. I just thought it would be nice to have it written out, so I would know what I would write if I was brave enough. So I wrote the letter and then just kept it in my journal…right?

Ha!

You see, the thought of actually writing the letter I would hypothetically give to my crush if I was brave enough…was still too scary. So instead, I drew a sketch of the letter.

That’s right, folks: I drew a picture of a hypothetical love letter. It’s now hypothetical twice.

(Hold your applause, please: we’re just coming to the best part!)

What did the letter say, you ask? BEHOLD:

(It’s a deadname. Get it???)

I…I can’t, you guys. I’m dying. This is so sad it’s hilarious. I drew a sketch of the hypothetical love letter I would write if I was brave enough to write the letter I would hypothetically give to my crush if I was brave enough to give it to them, and in that sketch…the letter’s blank. I couldn’t even imagine imagining what I would imagine saying to them!

Well, okay, it wasn’t entirely blank: I did put their name on it. I was brave enough to do that much, at least!

…I just had to then immediately tear the page out of my journal, fold it up, put it in a SECRET box, and stash the SECRET box in a SECRET hiding place in my room, so that no one would ever, ever find out about my SUPER SECRET CRUSH.

Especially my crush.

(We ended up married, by the way. I did get there eventually!)

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BwEoTrTsEeR

I’m still not very good at poetry, but I feel like I’ve been improving a lot recently!

Or at least I did, before I started reading Andrea Gibson. Now I feel like everything I’ve ever written, poetry or otherwise, is literal garbage. The garbage-est kind of garbage. Like, toilet paper.

Gently used toilet paper.

But…I’m still proud of the progress I’m making? If anything, I’m more motivated than ever to improve. Somehow, seeing a creator that far above my level is discouraging and inspiring at the same time.

It’s like looking across a massive canyon, a chasm that separates my ability from theirs. Surveying it, I can’t pretend perfectionism any more; every word I put onto the page is another reminder of my failure. But the flip side of seeing that gap–remembering it’s there–is that I also know it can be crossed. Andrea themself was on this side, once; they stood where I stand. If they made the journey, maybe I can too.

And of course, there are other reasons why it’s healthy to be reminded that you’re always making garbage.

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Attachmentality

When I was little, my best friend was a boy named Jack. We were thick as thieves from 1st grade all the way through 5th, when he transferred to a different school. I haven’t seen or spoken with him since then–almost 30 years–but if I ran into him in the grocery store tomorrow my first impulse would be to give him a big, warm hug.

It recently occured to me that this probably isn’t normal.

I get very attached to the people I like. If I really like someone, I don’t stop feeling close just because we’ve gone a measly little decade or three without speaking–if we get in touch again, I go right back to treating them like a best friend.

Understandably, this can be off-putting to people who no longer feel the same way!

It’s incredible how many background variables our minds take for granted. If it had ever consciously occured to me to question this assumption, I would have discarded it immediately. But because I never noticed the assumption, I continued to take it as given that people I was still attached to would have some attachment to me.

It also helps explain why I struggle with casual relationships with people like coworkers, neighbors, and acquaintances: it’s hard for me to remain engaged and friendly without a strong emotional connection, but building that connection takes a lot of work and can only be done with certain people. I used to be better at this–probably because I had more energy to devote to maintaining the appearance of an emotional connection, even when I didn’t really feel one.* Or perhaps I was better at building small, temporary connections that weren’t as big an investment. Or maybe both! After all, when it comes to certain mental traits (like confidence or friendliness), sometimes “fake it till you make it” is really just another way of saying “practice makes perfect” or “exercise makes you stronger.”

I guess one takeaway for me is that I’m out of practice at being friendly. Better start exercising!

*Not that I didn’t care about the people I was talking to! I care a lot about everybody! In a way, that’s kind of the problem!

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Please, Please, PLEASE Don’t Do This

Elon Musk announces Grok AI's new "Companions" feature on Twitter. Threads users davidleavitt and kevin_michael_murphy_jr mock the feature and Elon, calling him "lonely."

Please don’t use “lonely” to mock and insult people. No, not even N*zis. Companionship is a fundamental human need, right along with food, water, shelter, and safety. When people steryotype “loneliness” as a defining feature of disgusting incels, they alienate potential allies and push vulnerable people who are genuinely suffering into the arms of a toxic culture that exploits their suffering to perpetuate misogyny, classism, and white supremacy.

“Lonely” is not a character flaw and shouldn’t be used as an insult. If you wouldn’t use “autistic” or “triggered” or “sexless” or “depressed” as an insult, don’t use “lonely” as one either. None of those things make a person good or bad!

“N*zi,” on the other hand, is a character flaw. That one’s a great insult! “Incel” is pretty good, too! Just stick with those, please!

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Snow Koan

The master spoke: “It is said the sentence ‘snow is white’ is true, if and only if snow is white. This we have already discussed. But it is a separate question whether snow is, in fact, white. So what color is snow?”

The student, having re-learned the child’s art of giving simple answers to simple questions, replied: “White, of course!”

The master smiled. “Oh? And are you certain of that belief?”

As you’ve taught me, I cannot be absolutely certain of anything,” said the student. “But I am humanly certain, yes.”

“And if I say that snow is not white?” inquired the master.

“Holding to true beliefs in the face of authority is an old lesson, master. My answer is unchanged.”

“Well and good,” said the master. “But what if I offered more than mere authority?  What if I showed you that snow is not white?”

This question did not seem simple, so the student paused to think before answering.

“If you could actually do that,” they replied, “I would be very interested. But I do not expect it to happen.”

Wordlessly, the master rose and walked outside, beckoning the student to follow. It was winter, and it just so happened that a fresh layer of snow had covered the ground the night before. The master pointed to a patch of snow down the hill, upon which some animal had recently urinated. “Snow is yellow,” the master said, for the snow there was indeed yellow.

The student began to speak, but the master held up a hand to silence them, then led them to a snow fort some of the younger adepts had built that morning.  The two of them stuck their heads inside, and the master said, “Snow is blue,” for the light shining through the walls was, in fact, a muted blue.

Finally, the master pulled a microscope from their pocket and, using a chilled pair of tweezers, placed a single perfect snowflake under the lens, beckoning the student to look. The student did so and beheld a fantastic crystal, transparent yet scintillating with rainbow. The master said, “Snow is all colors and no color,” and surely that was the only description that properly fit.

“Now you have seen,” said the master, “So I ask you again, what color is snow?”

The student, feeling rather stupid, hesitated. They began: “Well…it depends on how you see it, I suppose…or where you see it…I mean, the context–” but they were interrupted by a big, white, wet, and very cold snowball to the face, which the master had been concealing.

In that moment, the student was enlightened.

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My Truck Identifies As a Prius

It’s a bumper sticker I see now and then. Funny, right? Ha ha, let’s all laugh at the idea that your “identity” can change what’s under the hood.

Only…what if what’s under the hood actually was a Prius engine? Would it be such a stretch then to say your truck ought to be treated like one? That you should be entitled to the same tax breaks and emissions exemptions and parking privileges as any other hybrid?

You might be thinking, “Sure, but people aren’t cars–you can’t just swap parts between them the way you could an engine or suspension!” And it’s true, people aren’t cars: men and women are much more similar to each other than trucks and cars. Unlike them, we aren’t designed and built from the top-down, we’re grown from the bottom-up. We all start from the same two cells, and we all spend the first few days and weeks of our lives looking pretty much the same. Even our genitals are all identical at first! In fact, there are a number of ways male and female “parts” can get mixed up at all stages of development.

Some “mix-ups” are so small as to be barely noticeable: a woman with unusually high testosterone levels or muscle tone, or a man with wider-than-average hips. Others are harder or impossible to ignore: a woman with facial hair, a man with breasts.

Even the venerated “sex chromosomes” are not definitive: there are XY people who can conceive and give birth, and XX people with penises and functional sperm. Not to mention all the other possible karyotypes such as XXY, Xo, XYY, and more.

Given everything that can get “mixed-up” and all the different ways in which a person might not fit the “male” or “female” archetypes, is it really that much of a stretch to suppose that a person might be born with a typically male body, but a female mind? (Or vice versa?)

There is one other important way that cars and people are different: if you claimed that your truck had a Prius engine, we could open the hood and check. But, for better and worse, we can’t simply pop open the hood of someone’s mind and see what’s in there. With rare and limited exceptions, when someone makes a claim about their own mind, we have no ethical choice but to take their word for it.

Identity is complex. Not all of it is determined by biology; there are parts of your identity that you can choose. But being trans, like being gay, doesn’t seem to be one of them. Without exception, every trans person I’ve heard talk about it has described realizing they were trans as a discovery, not a decision: looking back on their past and seeing that they had, in fact, been trans the whole time.

If you’d owned a truck for years that was underpowered but strangely quiet and fuel-efficient, and one day you opened the hood for the first time and discovered it had a hybrid engine… Well, maybe that bumper sticker wouldn’t seem like such a joke anymore.

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