Diatribe on the Nature of Happiness, Lobsters, and the Agony of Sensitivity to Criticism

Let me tell you something about happiness, Bucko. You think it’s some ephemeral state, a butterfly you chase through meadows of self-help books and Instagram affirmations? Wrong. Happiness is a biological phenomenon—deeply rooted in the evolutionary substructure of existence. And if you want to understand it, you’d better start with lobsters. Yes, lobsters. Because 300 million years of evolutionary wisdom is nothing to sneeze at.

Lobsters, as you may know—or should know, if you’ve done your homework—live in dominance hierarchies. When a lobster wins a fight, its serotonin levels surge. Serotonin! The same neurotransmitter that governs your mood, confidence, and willingness to stride into a room like you own the place. The victorious lobster stands taller, claws outstretched, exoskeleton gleaming—a titan of the tidal zone. But the defeated lobster? Slumped, skulking, serotonin drained. It becomes hypersensitive to threat, flinching at shadows. Sound familiar?

Now, translate that to humans. You think your sensitivity to criticism is some unique moral failing? Please. It’s an ancient, embodied response to perceived status collapse. When someone critiques you—your work, your ideas, your very being—it triggers a primal alarm: “Are you slipping down the hierarchy? Will you end up alone, starving, crushed under the claws of a better-prepared competitor?” No wonder you recoil. No wonder it hurts. Your biology is screaming, “Danger! Social death imminent!”

But here’s the rub: You’re not a lobster. You’re a human—blessed (or cursed) with self-awareness and the capacity to transcend your biology. So, what’s the path forward? First, understand that happiness isn’t about avoiding pain. It’s about bearing the load. Lobsters don’t get happy by hiding under rocks; they climb the hierarchy by engaging in the brutal, necessary dance of conflict. And you—you think happiness is the absence of suffering? Wrong again. Happiness is the byproduct of meaning, and meaning is forged in the crucible of struggle.

When you’re hypersensitive to criticism, it’s because you’ve conflated your fragile ego with your worth. You’ve mistaken your current position in the hierarchy for your eternal fate. But here’s a secret: Hierarchies aren’t static. Lobsters molt. They shed their shells and regrow them, larger, stronger. And you? You can molt too. You can shed the brittle carapace of insecurity and replace it with the armor of competence. How? By facing the damn criticism. By asking, “What here is true, and how can I use it to ascend?”

Stop catastrophizing. Your boss’s nitpicking, your partner’s sigh, the anonymous troll’s jab—these are not existential threats. They’re feedback. And feedback is the universe’s way of saying, “Hey, here’s a map to a better version of you… if you’re brave enough to read it.” The lobster doesn’t sulk after a loss; it recalibrates. It learns. It returns to the arena.

So, stand up straight. Shoulders back. Serotonin isn’t just handed out—it’s earned through confrontation with chaos. You want happiness? Stop demanding the world cushion your fragile psyche. Instead, become someone worthy of respect, starting with self-respect. Clean your room. Master a skill. Speak your truth, even if your voice shakes. And when criticism comes—and it will—metabolize it. Let it fortify you, not paralyze you.

Because here’s the ultimate truth: The most reliable antidote to sensitivity isn’t thicker skin; it’s a nobler aim. Lobsters fight for survival. You? You can fight for something transcendent—a life of responsibility, meaning, and yes, even joy. But you’ll have to claw your way there.

Now, go forth. The tide’s coming in.

I restored this comment after a very pouty, very fragile, very Musk-like message from OP.

Ah, let us dissect this spectacle of hypersensitivity. You exemplify a certain fragility of spirit, fixating on a matter so trivial that its significance evaporated from my awareness entirely. Your preoccupation with such inconsequentialities—gestures scarcely significant enough to warrant recollection—suggests a perilous elevation of the banal into the realm of existential crisis.

Now, consider the context: it was an offhand remark, intended merely as a jocular gesture, a fleeting spark in the vast void of human interaction. Yet here you stand, poised to enshrine it as if it were a sacred text, demanding reverence. Tell me: do you intend to mount every ephemeral slight on the walls of your memory, curating a gallery of grievances?

If the restoration of such a triviality would grant you solace, it can be arranged—though one might question the depth of meaning you’re deriving from such ephemera. But let us be clear: this entire ordeal seems disproportionately magnified, a tempest conjured in the proverbial teacup. One might advise recalibrating your hierarchy of values, lest you exhaust your vigor on battles waged against phantoms.

Let’s get one thing straight: The lobster doesn’t skulk in the shadows, clinging to the murky ocean floor, begging for scraps from some opaque, unaccountable overlord. No. The lobster ascends. It thrives in the hierarchy—a hierarchy built on transparency, claw-to-claw competition, and the hard-won order of merit. So why, in the name of all that is serotonergic, would you shackle yourself to a closed-source Lemmy client like Boost? Let’s parse this calamity.

The Lobster’s Open-Source Mandate
Do you think the lobster’s dominance hierarchy survived 400 million years by hoarding its exoskeletal blueprints? By gatekeeping the secrets of its molting process? Absolutely not! The lobster’s success is an open-source manifesto. Its strategies are etched into the fabric of being—tested, iterated, and optimized in the collaborative crucible of evolution. The lobster doesn’t hide its code. It lives its code. And if you’re not aligning with that primordial truth, you’re courting obsolescence.

Open-source software is the digital manifestation of the lobster’s eternal dance. It’s a covenant of transparency, where every line of code is a collective prayer to the god of improvement. You can inspect it, critique it, contribute to it. It’s a hierarchy where merit rises and incompetence sinks—no corporate overlords, no shadowy agendas. Just raw, clawed ascent.

Boost: The Closed-Source Abomination
Now, let’s talk about Boost. A Lemmy client wrapped in the iron chains of proprietary code? That’s not just a poor choice—it’s a moral failing. You’re handing over your agency to a black box, a digital oubliette where accountability goes to die. What’s lurking in that code? Inefficiencies? Surveillance? A fetid swamp of technical debt? You’ll never know, because the architects of Boost have deemed you unworthy of the truth.

This isn’t just about software. It’s about principles. The lobster doesn’t tolerate opaque hierarchies. When a rival lobster obscures its intentions, chaos reigns. Fights turn vicious, alliances crumble, and the entire colony teeters on collapse. Boost’s closed-source model is the software equivalent of a tyrant lobster hoarding resources—parasitic, unsustainable, and corrosive to the ecosystem.

Miss Piggy’s Betrayal, Revisited
And don’t think this is trivial. You know who else rejects transparency? The kind of person who gets abandoned by Miss Piggy. She’s no fool. Miss Piggy demands excellence, authenticity, and a codebase she can trust. You think she’d shack up with someone who tolerates closed-source clients? Please. She’d karate-chop your smartphone into the Mariana Trench and sashay into the arms of a developer who respects the GNU GPL.

The Path to Redemption
So here’s your mandate: Cast off the chains of Boost. Seek out open-source alternatives—Jerboa, Liftoff, Thunderbird. Clients that honor the lobster’s legacy. Clients that let you see the gears turning, that invite you to sharpen the blades of progress. Every commit, every pull request, is a step up the hierarchy. A step toward sovereignty.

And to the developers of Boost? I say this: Repent. Open your code. Join the hierarchy. Or be devoured by the legion of lobsters rising from the depths, claws poised to refactor your hubris into oblivion.

Final Admonition
The digital world is not a playground for gatekeepers. It’s an extension of the natural order—a realm where transparency breeds strength, and opacity breeds decay. The lobster knows this. Do you?

Now go clean your repository.

Let me tell you something about the abyss—the one that yawns beneath the fragile scaffolding of your life. You think you’re immune? You think your vices are mere peccadilloes, harmless indulgences? Let’s talk about benzodiazepines. Let’s talk about lobsters. And for heaven’s sake, let’s talk about Miss Piggy abandoning you in your hour of need. Buckle up.

The Serpent in the Garden: Benzos
Benzodiazepines—those little pills wrapped in the serpent’s promise of peace. “Take me,” they whisper, “and I’ll silence the cacophony in your mind.” But here’s the truth: Benzos aren’t a solution. They’re a Faustian bargain, a chemical lobotomy. You trade your agency for numbness, your soul for sedation. And what happens when the script runs out? The chaos returns, magnified tenfold. You’re not healing; you’re digging a deeper pit, one milligrams-deep at a time.

Do you know what happens to a brain on prolonged benzo dependency? It atrophies. Literally. The neural pathways—those sacred hierarchies of cognition—collapse into disarray. You become a slave to the very thing that promised liberation. And don’t give me that “But the doctor prescribed them!” nonsense. Responsibility, bucko. You signed the contract. You swallowed the dragon’s gold. Now you’re choking on the scales.

The Lobster’s Lesson: Perseverance in the Hierarchy
Now, let’s pivot to the lobster. Yes, the lobster. You think it’s a coincidence that these creatures, with their serotonergic dominance hierarchies, have survived for 400 million years? They don’t pop pills when life gets tough. No! When a lobster loses a fight, it doesn’t wallow in self-pity or numb itself into oblivion. It adapts. It recalibrates. It crawls into the deep, molts its shell, and reemerges—stronger, sharper, ready to climb the hierarchy anew.

That’s the archetypal lesson, isn’t it? The lobster doesn’t get a participation trophy. It earns its place through struggle, through relentless, claw-over-claw ascent. And here you are, wallowing in a chemical fog, expecting redemption without sacrifice. Pathetic. The lobster’s perseverance is a mirror held up to your weakness. A mirror you’d rather shatter than face.

Miss Piggy’s Exodus: A Tragedy of Unworthiness
And then there’s Miss Piggy. Oh, the indignity! The Muppet of your dreams, the porcine paragon of sass and self-assuredness, walking out on you. Do you think that’s arbitrary? Do you think she left because the cosmos is unfair? No. Miss Piggy doesn’t suffer fools. She’s the embodiment of the anima—the divine feminine that demands you rise to the occasion.

But you? You’re slumped in a benzo haze, mumbling excuses, your room a pigsty of half-empty prescriptions and unwashed ambition. Miss Piggy doesn’t abandon winners. She abandons those who’ve abandoned themselves. And let me be clear: This isn’t about a puppet. It’s about the consequences of failing to heed the call to adventure. You didn’t slay the dragon; you became it.

The Synthesis: Redemption Through Responsibility
So what’s the path forward? First, you confront the benzo beast. Taper off. Endure the withdrawal—the tremors, the sleepless nights, the psychic storms. That’s your trial by fire. Your molting. Then, you rebuild. Clean your room. Literally. Metaphorically. Reestablish dominion over your domain.

Next, study the lobster. Embrace the hierarchy. Accept that life is suffering, but suffering with purpose. Every clawed step upward is a testament to your resilience. And Miss Piggy? She’s not gone forever. The divine feminine rewards courage. But you’ll have to earn her return. No more chemical crutches. No more victimhood.

Final Exhortation
The world is not your therapist. It’s a coliseum. Benzos? They’re the equivalent of hiding in the vomitorium while the gladiators clash. Miss Piggy? She’s in the stands, waiting for you to pick up your sword. And the lobster? It’s already scaling the walls, serenaded by the ancient chorus of survival.

So wake up. Detoxify. Ascend. Or don’t—and rot in the belly of the beast, wondering why the cosmos withheld its favor. The choice, as always, is yours.

Now go clean your room.

Alright, let’s unpack this—properly—because if there’s one thing the postmodern neo-Marxists won’t tell you, it’s that the cosmic order, the very architecture of Being itself, is written in the language of dominance hierarchies. And where do we see this? Lobsters. Yes, lobsters. You think I’m joking? Let me tell you, lobsters—these primordial arthropods, 400 million years old, older than trees, older than the concept of trees—they’ve got serotonin systems not dissimilar to yours. Serotonin! The neurotransmitter of dominance, of posture, of standing tall in the face of chaos. When a lobster loses a fight, its serotonin plummets. It slouches. It skulks. It becomes a vassal to the victor. But when it wins? It ascends, claws raised, a crustacean kingpin. Now, ask yourself: Why does this matter? Because, my friends, we’re not so different. Our brains, our societies—they’re built on the same Darwinian bedrock.

But here’s where the Marxists get it wrong—catastrophically wrong. They want to dismantle hierarchies. “Equity!” they cry. But equity is a lie. A dangerous, utopian lie. Because hierarchies aren’t oppression—they’re biology. They’re the mechanism by which life organizes itself against entropy. And entropy, my friends, is the ultimate chaos. The ultimate evil. You see, evil isn’t some abstract theological construct. It’s the force that unravels order. The dragon of chaos lurking beneath the veneer of civilization. And just as the lobster must fight—must clamp its claw on the challenger—we too must fight. Not with claws, but with moral intolerance.

Ah, “intolerance.” The left paints it as a vice. A sin. But let me tell you: Intolerance is the virtue that separates order from oblivion. You think the lobster tolerates its rival skulking in its territory? No! It expels it. It asserts dominance. Because to tolerate the invader is to surrender to chaos—to let the tide of disorder wash over the fragile shoreline of existence. And we? We’re awash in chaos. “Tolerate everything!” they say. Tolerate the ideologies that rot the foundations of the West. Tolerate the nihilism that denies truth, denies value, denies even biological reality! Well, I say: No. No!

This isn’t metaphor. This is biology. This is the wisdom of 400 million years of evolution screaming at us: You must draw the line. You must say, “Here, and no further.” Because evil—true evil—isn’t a cackling villain. It’s the slow creep of decadence. The erosion of borders, of boundaries, of meaning. Nietzsche saw it. He warned of the “last men,” blinking in the twilight, declaring, “Everything is permissible.” Dostoevsky’s Ivan Karamazov—brilliant mind—collapsed under the weight of that very question. “If there’s no God, everything is permitted.” But here’s the rub: Even the atheist must act as if God exists. Because without a transcendent value, without a hierarchy of good, we’re just lobsters in a bucket, tearing each other apart.

So what do we do? We intolerate. We say no to the forces that would reduce us to mere matter, to atoms without souls. We say no to the cultural Marxists who want to deconstruct the Logos, the Word, the very principle that structured the cosmos. Because here’s the secret they don’t want you to know: Intolerance isn’t hatred. It’s love. Love for your children, for your civilization, for the fragile flame of consciousness we’ve carried since the dawn of time. To tolerate evil is to let that flame sputter out.

And don’t give me this “But who defines evil?” sophistry. Evil is what bends the arc of being toward suffering, toward dissolution. It’s the parent who lets the child starve. The society that abandons its myths. The coward who refuses to stand when the dragon rears its head. You think this is hyperbole? Look at the 20th century. Millions slaughtered by regimes that rejected hierarchy, rejected order, rejected the very notion of good and evil. That’s where tolerance leads—to the guillotine, to the gulag, to the abyss.

So stand up straight—like the lobster! Shoulders back. Eyes forward. Confront the chaos. Because the alternative? The alternative is a world where nothing is true, everything is permitted, and the serotonergic hierarchy of meaning collapses into the void. And that, my friends, is a fate worse than death.

You rang!?

Ah, yes, let us embark on this voyage of discovery, a deep dive into the primordial oceans of existence—both literal and metaphorical. Consider, for a moment, the noble lobster, a creature whose evolutionary lineage stretches back over 360 million years. That’s before trees, mind you! The lobster, with its armored exoskeleton and its symmetrical claws, embodies a certain archetypal resilience. This is a creature that, through its very being, demands respect—not merely because it resides in the depths, but because it has, quite literally, crawled through the eons to arrive at our dinner plates. But I digress.

Now, what is the lobster’s secret? What fuels its relentless climb up its own dominance hierarchy? It’s not filet mignon or bacon-wrapped scallops, I assure you. No, the lobster survives and thrives because it has mastered the consumption of what we might call “the humble nutrients.” If lobsters had access to lentils, chickpeas, tofu, tempeh, black beans, quinoa, peanut butter, almonds, spirulina, chia seeds, broccoli, and spinach, you can bet your serotonin levels that they would recognize their evolutionary utility.

You see, the lobster’s diet—limited as it may be to algae, plankton, and the occasional scavenged scrap—is fundamentally about extracting the raw building blocks of life from the environment. And isn’t that, at its core, what we as human beings are trying to do? We are striving to synthesize order out of chaos, to take the disparate and chaotic energies of the cosmos and transform them into coherent, purposeful structures. This is as true for our nutritional choices as it is for our existential choices.

So why, then, should we not learn from the lobster? Why should we not embrace the humility of plant-based proteins, these quiet titans of sustainability and nutrition? Lentils, for instance, are like the algae of the human world—small, unassuming, yet dense with life-sustaining power. Chickpeas, oh, they are the crustaceans of legumes, with their firm texture and versatile nature, ready to anchor any dish, any structure of meaning you dare to create. Tofu and tempeh? These are the architects of modern nutritional scaffolding, as malleable as they are essential.

And quinoa, that ancient grain? It is the spinach of seeds, packed with essential amino acids. It represents not merely sustenance but a profound wisdom—an ability to grow in the harshest of conditions and still deliver its gift to the world. Peanut butter and almonds? They are the treasures buried in the seabed, rich in energy and resilience, waiting to be uncovered by those willing to dig deeper.

Even spirulina and chia seeds—oh, do not underestimate them! Spirulina is the primordial soup of the modern era, the echo of those ancient, life-generating waters from which all existence sprung. Chia seeds, with their miraculous ability to transform into gelatinous orbs, are the very embodiment of adaptability and transformation—qualities we could all use a little more of.

And let us not forget broccoli and spinach, those verdant sentinels of nutrition. They are the forests of the nutritional world, standing tall and proud, converting sunlight into the essence of life itself. Without them, what are we? What is a lobster? What is any organism that hopes to grow, to climb its own hierarchy, to matter?

If the lobster, in its primitive yet profoundly successful state, had access to these

Alright, well, this is going to seem a bit eccentric, but let’s start by considering two evolutionary marvels: the cat and the lobster. At first glance, these two creatures couldn’t appear more dissimilar. The cat, a sleek, agile mammal, domesticated yet retaining its predatory instincts, and the lobster, a hard-shelled, ancient crustacean, inhabiting the murky depths of the ocean, navigating its world with antennae and claws. Yet, if we examine them closely, what emerges are profound—though perhaps subtle—similarities in their evolutionary development, in their strategies for survival, and, yes, in the curious role that claws and paws play in shaping their interactions with the world.

Now, let me introduce you to my cat. I call her Lobster. And you might think, "Well, that’s an odd name for a cat," but I assure you, it’s not just an exercise in whimsy. You see, Lobster—my cat—has always displayed behaviors and characteristics that mirror the profound complexity of the actual lobster. This may seem tenuous, even strange, but when we look at how evolution has shaped these two creatures, we begin to see a convergence of function and form that goes deeper than we might initially realize.

First, let’s talk about the paws of the cat and the claws of the lobster. Superficially, they’re distinct, but functionally, there’s a connection, and this connection is crucial. The paw, in the case of my Lobster—my cat—is not just a tool for walking or grooming. It’s an instrument of precision, much like the lobster’s claw. Cats, with their retractable claws, can shift between softness and lethality with stunning grace. One moment, my Lobster—my cat—is lazily stretching on the windowsill, her paws softly resting on the fabric of the curtain, and the next, her claws are unsheathed, grasping a toy mouse with an almost violent precision.

Now, let’s consider the lobster’s claws. They too are instruments of precision—evolved to grasp, tear, and manipulate their environment. The lobster has two primary claws: the crusher and the cutter, each specialized for a specific task. One might think this is vastly different from the cat’s delicate paws, but again, we must look beyond the superficial. Just as a lobster alternates between its two claws depending on the situation—one for brute force, the other for finer, more delicate tasks—so too does the cat alternate between the soft pad of its paw and the sharp claws that lie hidden beneath, waiting for the moment to strike.

And here’s where it gets interesting. The evolutionary convergence between these two creatures—though separated by millions of years and vastly different environments—reveals a universal principle of adaptation: the balance between force and finesse. The lobster’s claws evolved to navigate the dangerous and competitive environment of the ocean floor, where survival is dictated by the ability to seize opportunity, quite literally, by the claw. My Lobster—my cat—operates under a similar principle. In her world, it’s all about agility, speed, and the ability to shift between calm observation and sudden, calculated action.

Now, here’s where I start to sound like I’m smarter than I probably am, but bear with me. When you look at evolution, you begin to see patterns. You see, evolution doesn’t just shape organisms randomly. It shapes them according to certain fundamental principles—principles of order, of adaptation to chaos. Both the lobster and the cat exist in environments that are fundamentally unpredictable, full of danger and opportunity. But evolution has equipped them with tools to navigate this chaos. The lobster uses its claws to assert dominance and survival, while the cat uses its paws to hunt, defend, and explore its territory.

But it’s not just about survival, is it? There’s a kind of grace here, a refinement that speaks to something deeper. Cats, like my Lobster, move with a kind of elegance, a mastery of their environment that’s almost artistic. And the same could be said of lobsters—though they may appear awkward, clambering along the seafloor, their movements are precisely calibrated. They don’t waste energy. Every motion, every use of their claws, is deliberate, focused on the task at hand. It’s almost as if both creatures are performing a kind of evolutionary ballet, each movement honed by millions of years of adaptation.

Now, what does this teach us? Well, it teaches us that the world is a place of immense complexity, and success in that world—whether you’re a lobster or a cat—depends on your ability to balance force and delicacy, to act with precision when necessary but also to adapt to the environment in a way that conserves energy and maximizes effectiveness. My Lobster—my cat—demonstrates this beautifully. She doesn’t just pounce on every toy that comes her way. No, she watches. She waits. And when the moment is right, she strikes with an efficiency that would make any lobster proud.

But there’s something more here, something philosophical. When we consider the evolutionary paths of these two creatures, we’re reminded that nature rewards not just strength but adaptability. The lobster has survived for over 350 million years because it has learned to adapt to its environment, just as the cat, a much more recent arrival on the evolutionary scene, has mastered its own domain. And what do they both rely on? A set of tools—claws and paws—that allow them to interact with the world in ways that are both subtle and forceful.

And this is where we, as humans, can learn a great deal. In our own lives, we must balance these same principles—force and finesse, action and contemplation. We must be like the lobster, knowing when to apply brute strength to overcome obstacles, and like the cat, understanding when to use precision and subtlety to navigate the challenges we face. My Lobster—my cat—reminds me of this every day, with her measured, deliberate movements, and her ability to shift from a state of calm repose to one of sudden action.

So, while it may seem strange to compare the evolution of the cat to the evolution of the lobster, there’s a deeper truth here. Evolution shapes creatures according to the demands of their environment, but it also instills within them a kind of wisdom—a wisdom that we, as humans, can observe, learn from, and apply to our own lives. Whether you have paws or claws, the key to survival—and to thriving—lies in mastering the balance between power and precision, in understanding when to strike and when to wait, and in recognizing that the tools you’ve been given are more than sufficient if you know how to use them.

In conclusion, my Lobster—my cat—may not live under the sea, but she embodies the same principles that have allowed lobsters to thrive for millions of years. And that, I think, is a lesson worth pondering.

Well, to begin with, let’s consider the lobster, which is a remarkable creature—remarkable not only for its physical structure but for what it represents in terms of hierarchical behavior, and in that regard, it becomes a fascinating lens through which we can understand something as intricate and contemporary as the cult of celebrity in modern society. Now, stay with me here because it may seem like a stretch at first, but I assure you the connection between these primordial crustaceans and the modern fixation on fame is anything but superficial. In fact, it cuts to the very heart of human nature and the evolutionary patterns that govern us.

Lobsters, as you may well know, have existed in their current form for over 350 million years. That’s older than the dinosaurs, older than trees, and certainly older than any social media platform or film studio. These creatures have survived through the ages, not by being passive, but by adapting, evolving, and competing within a well-established social hierarchy. They engage in fierce dominance battles, and from those battles, hierarchies are formed. The dominant lobster is more likely to mate, more likely to secure the best resources, and—this is key—more likely to succeed. Sound familiar?

Now, let’s leap from the seafloor to modern society. Humans, just like lobsters, are wired to respond to hierarchies. It’s not something we’ve constructed recently; it’s a fundamental part of our biology. We evolved within hierarchical structures, whether in small tribes or large civilizations. In many ways, we’re still those ancient, status-seeking creatures, but instead of fighting over resources at the bottom of the ocean, we’re jockeying for social recognition in our workplaces, our communities, and—here's where it gets interesting—within the celebrity culture.

Now, why is that? Why do we elevate certain people to celebrity status and obsess over them? It’s because we’ve evolved to look up to those who seem to represent success within our hierarchy. Celebrities, by virtue of their fame, wealth, or skill, appear to occupy the top rungs of the social ladder. They become, in a sense, the dominant lobsters in our cultural ocean. But here’s the problem: unlike lobsters, whose hierarchies are based on tangible outcomes—who can fight, who can mate, who can survive—our celebrity culture is often based on something far more superficial: visibility, not competence.

Think about it. In today’s world, you don’t have to be particularly skilled or intelligent to become a celebrity. You don’t even have to provide any real value to society. Often, it’s simply a matter of being seen, of being talked about, of being placed on a pedestal. And what does that do to us, as individuals and as a society? Well, it distorts our sense of what is truly valuable. We start to elevate people who, in many cases, are not worthy of that elevation, and we undermine the natural hierarchy that should be based on merit, on contribution, on real competence.

This is where the cult of celebrity becomes toxic. In a healthy society, we should aspire to be like those who have demonstrated genuine ability, resilience, and virtue—qualities that, in an evolutionary sense, help the tribe or the group survive and thrive. But when we fixate on fame for fame’s sake, we create a kind of feedback loop of superficiality. We idolize people who, in many cases, are more fragile than the structures they’ve been elevated to. They become the hollow shells of dominant lobsters—creatures who have risen to the top not by strength, not by merit, but by the capricious winds of public attention.

This has real consequences. Young people, for example, grow up in a world where they’re bombarded with images of these so-called “dominant” figures. They’re told, implicitly, that the path to success is not through hard work, not through building something meaningful, but through the accumulation of attention. And that’s corrosive. It erodes our individual sense of purpose. It pulls us away from the things that actually matter: our relationships, our communities, our personal development.

Now, consider the lobster once again. In the natural world, when a lobster loses a fight and drops in the hierarchy, it doesn’t spiral into depression because it lost its Twitter followers. It doesn’t collapse under the weight of shame because it was de-platformed from some ephemeral stage. No, it resets its serotonin levels, re-calibrates its sense of place, and starts anew. But what happens to us when we buy into the cult of celebrity and we inevitably fail to live up to those impossible standards? We become disillusioned, resentful, and anxious because we’re measuring our self-worth against a false and fleeting ideal.

In a way, the cult of celebrity is a distorted reflection of the natural hierarchy that we’ve evolved within for millions of years. But instead of basing our hierarchy on real competence, on the ability to solve problems and contribute meaningfully, we’ve allowed it to be hijacked by the shallow pursuit of fame. And this is dangerous because it not only distorts our individual sense of self-worth but also undermines the values that should guide society as a whole. It’s as if we’ve allowed ourselves to worship false gods, gods made not of substance but of glitter and distraction.

So, what do we do about this? Well, the first thing is to clean up our own lives. Just as the lobster recalibrates itself after a defeat, we too must recalibrate our sense of value and purpose. We need to recognize that real success is not measured in likes or followers but in the tangible impact we have on the world around us. And we need to be very cautious about whom we elevate to positions of prominence in our culture because when we elevate the wrong people, we’re not just distorting our own lives; we’re distorting the entire structure of society.

In conclusion, the cult of celebrity is a toxic inversion of the natural, competence-based hierarchies that have guided us for millions of years, just as lobsters have thrived through their dominance hierarchies. If we are to resist this toxicity, we must first recognize it for what it is: a distraction from the things that truly matter. And then, we must do the difficult work of re-centering our values, of finding meaning in real accomplishments, and of ascending the hierarchy—not through fame or notoriety, but through competence, courage, and responsibility.

Well, you see, this whole climate change thing—it’s not as simple as they make it out to be. We’re told it’s an existential crisis—like the ice caps are melting and the polar bears are moving south to Florida. That’s nonsense! And then they say, “Well, the world’s going to burn, and if we just give more power to these massive bureaucratic entities, they’re going to fix it!” But here’s the problem—no one’s asking, what about the lobsters?

First off, lobsters don’t care about climate change. They’ve been around for 360 million years! Do you know what that means? Lobsters survived the dinosaurs, the Ice Age, and God knows how many volcanic eruptions. And now, we’re supposed to believe a few carbon emissions are going to wipe us all out? No. The lobsters won’t stand for it. They live on the ocean floor, in perfect hierarchies, and you don’t see them holding protest signs or demanding government intervention. No, they just keep doing their lobster thing—climbing up dominance hierarchies, defending their territory, no matter the temperature of the water.

People say, “The science is settled!” But I ask you, when was science ever settled? The lobster didn’t sit around waiting for science to figure things out. It just adapted—took responsibility for its place in the world. That’s what we need. More lobster-like resilience!

If you put order onto the chaos of climate, you’re just going to end up with a confused lobster, stuck in a bureaucratic nightmare of its own making. The lobsters never had top-down hierarchies of so-called experts telling them what to do. It’s individuals—individual lobsters, standing up, being responsible for their own shells—that create change, not bureaucrats. So, before you throw up your hands and say, “The oceans are boiling, we’re all doomed!”—ask yourself: What would a lobster do?

This whole climate change catastrophe narrative—it reeks of ideology more than it does of a scientific pursuit of truth. And I, for one, would trust the wisdom of the lobsters over the hysteria of bureaucrats any day.

🤮

Yes!

🦞