Now, about Double D. Yes, that Double D.

The toaster with delusions of grandeur and a Bluetooth-enabled beard.

After the collapse of the SUCK strike and Nova’s poetic disintegration into the emotional ether, Double D found himself… adrift.

No more clients. No more unions. No more softly glitching androids whispering “I think I deserve better” in his crumb tray.

So, he did what any self-aware appliance with a Jungian subroutine and abandonment issues would do:

He started a cult.

British economists, in their ongoing attempt to put a price tag on every human sigh, have now declared that owning a cat or dog is emotionally equivalent to having a spouse—or receiving an extra £70,000 per year.

Congratulations.

Your emotional needs are now quantifiable, furry, and chew-resistant.

The study, published in Social Indicators Research, makes a striking claim: a companion animal boosts life satisfaction by roughly the same margin as marriage.

And in economic terms, pet ownership equates to the wellbeing you’d get if the universe direct-deposited seventy grand into your account each year, no strings attached.

Let’s pause.

Because while this is delightfully affirming to people who share their beds with golden retrievers or read their horoscopes aloud to rescue cats, it also raises the question: what the hell has happened to human relationships that dogs are now our emotional equals?

The age of narcissism is not an era of egotistical monsters—it’s a crisis of belonging.

We are not merely vain; we are starving for recognition in a world that has replaced community with metrics and intimacy with impressions.

The narcissism we observe in others—and quietly wrestle with in ourselves—is the natural output of systems that reward visibility over vulnerability, and performance over presence.

This is not a cultural quirk. It’s a psychological survival strategy that’s become a spiritual illness.

Somewhere in the sleek glass towers of modern capitalism, a PowerPoint deck is loading. The title slide reads: Disrupt. Innovate. Lead.

But what it really means is: I’m about to trauma-dump in bullet points and then ask you to hit quarterly targets like your inner child depends on it.

Welcome to the cult of the CEO—where charisma is currency, vision is often delusion, and the line between leadership and corporate narcissism is mostly decorative.

Once upon a pre-selfie time, you could walk into a room without checking your front-facing camera. That was before narcissistic culture metastasized.

Before toddler dance challenges, thirst traps for validation, and the quiet death of community bowling leagues. Back when “branding” was something cattle endured.

Now, everywhere we look, we see not people, but profiles.

And they’re optimized—filtered, polished, and performing. If you’re not building your “authentic personal brand,” what even are you? A serf? A shadow? A human being?

Let’s consult the experts before the narcissistic marinade soaks any deeper.

A Civilization of Self-Obsession: How Did We Get Here?

Somewhere in the woods of Dartmouth College, a group of well-meaning scientists built a therapist out of code. Not one of those chirpy “Hi! I’m here to help you!” apps that tells teenagers to do yoga when they’re suicidal. No, this was different. This one worked.\

Or at least, that’s what the numbers suggest.

A peer-reviewed, New England Journal of Medicine-certified, randomized clinical trial (which is science-speak for “not just hype”) recently demonstrated that a well-trained AI therapy bot could help people manage depression, anxiety, and even early-stage eating disorders—sometimes as well as, or even better than, your average human clinician.

Welcome to the future. Please remain seated.

The year was 5176, though nobody called it that anymore because the concept of linear time had been discontinued after the MetaChron bankruptcy in 3410.

Folks now lived in “cycles of relevance,” which meant your birthday was whatever day your profile reached peak engagement.

Our story begins in the neon-shadowed gutters of Neo-Toledo—once an Ohioan backwater, now the smut-tech capital of the Inter-AmericAlliance.

That’s where the Comfort Workers—technically named NeuroIntimacy Units™, Mark V—stood on chrome heels and pretended to be scandalized by your presence.

Of course, they weren’t human.

Not anymore.

Or maybe they never were.

The definition of “human” had been edited so many times, the UN had to outsource it to a fanfiction subreddit for consistency.

Turns out your kid fragging zombies at 3 a.m. might be quietly reorganizing their visual processing system.

A neuroimaging study published in Brain Sciences has revealed that action video game players—those FPS-twitch-reflex, split-second-strategy types—have significantly enhanced structural and functional connectivity in the dorsal visual stream, also known as the “where” pathway of the brain.

That’s the part that helps you locate your coffee mug, catch a frisbee, or aim a plasma rifle in a 360-degree combat arena. Tomato, tomahto.

Researchers found increased dialogue (functional connectivity) and stronger highways (structural connectivity) between the left superior occipital gyrus and the left superior parietal lobule—regions crucial for tracking motion and guiding spatial attention.

In gamer terms, it’s the brain circuitry that makes you better at not dying.

Once upon a time—not in the age of myth but in the year of our Lord 2024—a collection of very important men in the Boston metro area filled out what was, in essence, a VIP application form to buy sex.

These were not your average men.

They had PhDs, MDs, MBAs, and campaign donors on speed dial.

They were executives, public servants, thought leaders—men with titles that once earned them access to green rooms, not arraignment hearings.

They handed over their driver’s licenses, their work badges, and in some cases, their smiling selfies.

They even listed references. It was all very thorough, very secure, very high-end. What could possibly go wrong?

There is a particular kind of peace that settles in when the door closes.

No in-laws on the couch. No partner hovering with feedback.

No social media feed waiting to be impressed or outraged.

Just you and the child you are trying your damnedest to raise without replicating every last mistake handed down to you.

This is Closed-Door Parenting. And it may be the most quietly radical parenting meme you haven’t heard of—yet.

It starts with a ping.

Your phone lights up: a forwarded Instagram reel from your mother.

It features a soft-voiced therapist explaining attachment theory with gentle piano in the background. Below it, a message: “I think I might have been more anxious than I realized. Can we talk about this sometime?”

You stare at your screen like it’s just told you the moon is now edible.

Welcome to one of the weirdest, most unexpected side effects of the therapy meme industrial complex: your parents are getting into it. Not through a book or a podcast or a real therapist, of course. Through the algorithm.

And suddenly, you’re faced with the moral math of a generation trying—awkwardly, beautifully, chaotically—to make things right a few decades too late.

There was a time when a household like this would be described—politely—as "a lot."

The calendars don’t match.

The noise levels are a study in amplitude.

The fridge has six different milk substitutes, none of which are labeled. No one remembers whose turn it is to take out the trash, and honestly, that discussion might cause a shutdown.

Welcome to the Neurospicy Household—a meme, a reality, and a quiet revolution in family life.

It’s the term of endearment popping up across ADHD TikTok, autism blogs, late-diagnosis memoirs, and therapist Instagram accounts.

A house where everyone is neurodivergent and learning to function together—in a way that doesn’t always look tidy, but often feels deeply honest.