A Quantitative Analysis of the Conspiratorial Preferences of DTWH Readers
Let's have some fun fellow diggers, shall we!
Let's have some fun fellow diggers, shall we!
September 2 2022
Like many fellow humble Substackers, I enjoy the egalitarian and inclusive nature of making every post free, knowing it makes me morally superior to Berenson and co.
At this point, one can only sit back and admire a master of his craft at work.
Thus, also like many fellow humble Stackers, who spend far more time than they can afford on here instead of doing activities that provide an income, we face a dilemma: do we somehow try and find a way to make a small fortune in fundamentally immoral industries like the Head Virus Pusher Against Clot Shot-er, allowing us to flash our cash around like a paler, balder, nerdier version of Orange Man?
Or: do we work out a way to somehow make a quid?
Of course, no-one wants to go full Berenson/Kirsch (no background checks on those names, please): thus, the transition to shilling your services must be done somewhat tastefully and with a bit of class.
To aid in developing my thoughts re: potential paid-subscriber-only content — should my back up plan of Betfair finally paying out on the rigged 2020 election not eventuate (it will, but still need to cover all bases) — I decided to do a quick Excel quantitative analysis of my post-politics Substack posts to see if there were any salient trends in underlying post theme and likes received.
Some key takeaways about my readership, which may or may not be extrapolated into the broader Covid-dissident community:
Pro-weed (and/or anti reefer-madness, virus-pushing grifters);
Enjoyers of Anti-Jibby Jab rants (but preferably not about Black Australians);
Natural Law Adherents (proud of you guys);
Receptive to philosophical digressions, specifically about the overlap between disability and junk food;
Prone to Apocalyptic-leaning, MAGA-adjacent content (presumably as long as it doesn’t go full Qtard);
Supportive (albeit from small sample sizes) of my future wombat holes in Alternative Earth and Religious History (fuck yeh);
Open to further Conspirituality Movie Reviews (with the exception of Tom Cruise, which is unfortunate given Eyes Wide Shut is high on my to-do list);
High attachment to and investment in The Germ Conspiracy. Lolz.
A Wombat Gets Political
What could possibly go wrong?
What could possibly go wrong?
April 7 2022.
I had so many great conspiracy projects planned.
The contagious continuation of The Coronaspiracy, starting with the historical showdown between Pasteur and Bechamps that preceded and defined our current viral moment.
The spicy commencement of The Bible Conspiracy, focussing on 9/11 and the conspiracy against religion that it exposes.
And then my favourite wombat hole, The Earth Conspiracy: every theory about the hidden history, nature and shape of our home plane(t).
Fear not: they are all still there. They will all come to fruition at some stage. Right now, however, a fairly unexpected complication has arisen that requires promotion up the priority list: a spontaneous and not fully thought-out run for Australian Federal Parliament for a pro-Health Freedom minor party.
Why politics? Why give credibility to our failing, immoral and irredeemably-pharmaceutically-compromised Western political system and the people that uphold it by engaging in it and with them?
Every conspiritualist knows that true and lasting change can only come through inner work — from the inside — and presumably this also applies to salvaging our social institutions.
Plus, the Tarot cards told me to do it, so who am I to argue with The Universe?
Hopefully a return to normal Wholesome Conspiracy programming is not far away. In the immediate term, however, it might be best to cut back on the tin foil and keep my focus on the job at hand: so expect my posts to have a decidedly political taste (albeit still as wombat-flavoured as possible) for at least the next month and a half..
Well… that’s the plan, anyway.
The Mask Wars Have To Stop
An I am proposing a truce.
And I am proposing a truce
Photo by Sarah Kilian on Unsplash
July 28 2020
As a now self-confessed conspiracy theorist, I have granted myself the moral authority to call out my own team — something that, in my humble opinion, has been forfeited by anyone who has haughtily dismissed a theory about the covert nefariousness of our world without investigating it themselves.
So, without further ado: if there is one thing that gives me the shits no end about a large proportion of the conspiracy world, it is their capacity to choose self-righteousness over bridge-building.
Case in point: masks.
Urgh. Seriously.
WHY ARE YOU DYING ON A HILL OVER MASKS.
Apologies for the caps. Actually, not really.
I don’t wanna wear a mask, just like everyone. Unlike most of these people, I don’t think we should have to wear masks: when the scientific jury still seems to be out on their effectiveness, and when trusted health authorities such as Dr. Anthony Fauci and the World Heath Organisation were originally telling us they weren’t necessary.
Sure, things change. Apparently, to the extent that we should now be mandated and shamed to wear masks that state clearly and surprisingly unambiguously on their packaging that they will not protect from the thing that they are being worn to protect from. See, I resisted the urge to use caps that time.
But these are minor quibbles. Again, I’m all about the bigger picture.
Because I also don’t particularly care about wearing a mask. I don’t care if it symbolizes subjugation to authority. I don’t care if it may well be the first step towards a slippery slope of 1984-esque oppression and tyranny by passive consent. I do care, as a general rule, about not being a dick.
My lungs also seem pretty good, despite some of my worst habits, so I’ll cop a bit of oxygen deprivation for a worthy cause.
Plus, like many a PhD graduate, I always wanted a chance to look and feel like a real Doctor, so this might be the closest I get.
Although, I’m not settling for a scarf or a bandana. Don’t give me this rubbish that, with all the cash these Neo-liberal Governments are splashing out at the moment, they can’t fork out to ensure the real deal for everyone.
So, here I am: proposing a truce.
Conspiracy theorists wear masks if conspiracy cynics start to care more about children being trafficked and abused in elite pedophile rings.
Deal? It seems fair enough. Even this wombat thinks so:
You really gonna argue with a wombat?
I’d like to chuck in children injured from adverse reactions to vaccines as well, but I don’t want to push my luck.
Maybe next time: just don’t expect me to be taking this vaccine to meet you halfway on that one.
That’s It: I’m Coming Out
I am a Conspiracy Theorist
I am a Conspiracy Theorist
Photo by Tom Radetzki on Unsplash
June 16 2020
Oh boy, wowee. Am I the only one who has noticed that Medium is getting a bit tense these days? It is rough out there.
Trump, it appears, has gone from a bumbling baffoon to a verified psychopath to the second coming of everyone’s least favourite appropriater of eastern religious symbolism for genocidal purposes. Call me controversial, but I think it is time Hinduism took the initiative to own the Swastika again. These asshats of history don’t get to tarnish these symbols forever.
Mass outdoor gatherings have transformed from festering virus-ridden hell-pits into one of the only remaining sources of righteousness in the world. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for protesting at this juncture in history, as long as you have removed all hope of those hapless Democrats helping the situation while you do so.
But, man, that vibe really did shift fast, didn’t it?
Also: it seems conspiracy theorists are now officially the scourge of the Earth. Not just intellectually, even morally, but apparently also spiritually: they don’t even deserve to call themselves religious! Cop that, Christians who dare to take Ephesians 6 to heart.
If I hadn’t lived with vertigo for a good three years, I’d say it was making me dizzy, but I’m done with that.
In fact, I’m done with this whole charade. While I watch many of my fellow rabbit hole descenders take the brunt of the outraged masses as they dare to question the Official Narrative, here I am hedging my bets on the fence, happy with the splinters as long as I am shielded from this wrath.
So here I am, to show my support. I Am A Conspiracy Theorist.
To be fair, I don’t think I am that bad. I’m close to 100% sure the Earth isn’t flat, for example. My liberal friends and family seem concerned, but aren’t thinking of committing me to a psych ward, which is promising. I’ve even managed to get a few on to my side.
Sure, I believe a lot of things that I don’t have the guts to reveal here. Ok fine. I think 9/11 was an inside job, but try watching this 5 minute video and convince me otherwise.
I am also prepared to say that I believe in aliens. Although, surely, with the state of life on this planet as it is, I can’t be faulted for hoping that there is life beyond it? I’m ready for the invasion at this point, even if it is fake.
I’m ok with the judgment. As a good ol’ white, cis, liberal (up until recently anyway) dude, I’m happy to put my privilege where my mouth is.
And, it goes without saying, you don’t have to agree with me. In fact, I do enjoy the smugness that comes in believing I know something that the sheeple don’t.
This is for me, not you.
Although, if you could agree with me that 9/11 was an inside job — or at the very least, that two jet planes aren’t capable of taking down 3 separate jet-fuel-fire-proof high rise buildings — that would certainly be a bonus!
My Medium Stats are Trolling Me
Photo by Alex Motoc on Unsplash
January 18 2020
Yes this is a story about stats. But it’s not one of those stories I promise. I need your help.
There I was, going along slow and steady on this wonderful platform that none of us whatsoever would ever think of having any misgivings about. After a relatively bare patch of publishing (because, you know, life), my stats had correspondingly stagnated; for the entirety of the second half of December I had not cracked over double figure views for a day. Feel better? You are welcome.
Not good enough, I said to myself. Time to lift my game: not by coming up with amazing ideas for new stories of course, but by piecing together ideas that had for months being lying dormant — something akin to digging a frozen meal out of the fridge you hadn’t eaten because you knew it wasn’t good enough, but adding some extra veggies and a miscellaneous form of protein and serving it like it was fresh off the stove.
It was one of these stories that has me in a kerfuffle. It’s not an overly noteworthy story, certainly not one of my best. You needn’t read it, and to prove it I’m not even going to provide a link.
But the day after it was published, in one of my mid-morning stats checks that quite often feels like an act of self-flagellation, I saw a confounding spike in my previously plateaued landscape of green columns. I had 20 views! Which was quite exciting until I realised this was accompanied by solitary, singular read. That’s right: how many of you can say you have had a story in the hallowed recesses of 5% read ratio. That takes some skill.
The next time I checked (let’s say an hour, even though it almost certainly wasn’t that long) it had somehow doubled. 40 views. Hey, I realised: I must have been curated! My obvious writing prowess had for so long been overlooked by the clueless and soulless Medium bots (just joking obviously) that I had forgotten what this felt like.
But no. No curation. Just lots of views. Still very few reads, still absolutely zero claps, but so many views. Too many, even. Something smelt fishy.
The range of emotions I felt over the next two days as the view count continued to rise like an old person viagra joke you can fill in for yourself was quite overwhelming (it wasn’t, but let’s go with it).
SO many views… 200 in a single day! So few reads (it has now, mercifully, crept up over 20%). Who were these mystery people, and where have you been up until now.
Well, as it turns out, there were no claps (I lie, I have one clap but it came from the publication editor so…) because a full 3% of these views had come internally from dear Medium readers. Order was somewhat restored, my ego was checked, my dreams of financial dominion squashed once again. My stats were being stacked by penniless, redundant, pitiful external clicks.
So perhaps I had somehow, despite a lack of curation, snuck into every second Medium Daily Digest? But no, because hardly any of these external clicks actually came from that seemingly slightly arbitrary ‘email, IM and direct’ grouping. Instead, I was getting pumped by this mysterious and, up until now, largely anonymous and entirely confusing ‘Android device (not Medium app)’.
What? Who? So many questions. Not least: why is it necessary to distinguish Android user stats? I know as an Apple user I am superior to other philistines, but I never expected to see it confirmed this blatantly.
But mainly, I am here to ask you dear Medium comrades: what the actual fudge is going on here? Is this a regular occurrence, or are my stats broken? Have I stumbled upon some mysterious formula that opens up stories meant for the safety of Medium eyes only into the scary real world of the internet? Is the Illuminati now keeping tabs on me, even though I live on the other side of the world in the fiery armageddon that currently is Australia? Or more likely, as I suspect by the three finger salute formed by those last three columns, are my Medium stats trolling me?
A Brief Rant in Defence of Yesterday
The Movie, that is, not the period of time.
December 19 2019
Have you seen the movie Yesterday?
I watched it on a long haul flight with fancy noise-cancelling headphones. I wasn’t expecting much, I mainly watched it because it was a movie about the Beatles (or at least their music), I had been told to watch it, I was too tired for a Ridley Scott or Christopher Nolan sci-fi, and the premise of it sounded actually potentially brilliant.
Turns out I actually loved it (disclaimer: I did also love Love Actually).
And so when I got home, I made my parents watch it, and they both loved it, along with my sister who was jet lagged and had already seen it twice, but still managed to watch most of it with us.
Obviously, not every loved it.
People say it misses the human aspect of the Beatles phenomenon.
Some people say it ignores the complexity of the cultural context in which transformative music (and art) emerges.
Some people have said the John scene at the end was weird.
Nope, sorry (well, maybe the John scene was weird, but it still almost made me cry both times).
The movie is its premise: the fantastic scenario of the Beatles music disappearing from the earth, some lucky pleb getting to be the one to reintroduce it, and the joy of watching it unfold. And that’s what it does — excellently, with bonus Ed Sheeran— stereotypes, cliches, plot holes be damned.
I loved it.
But I did also love Love Actually, which again was a movie simply about its premise: that love, actually, is all around us.
Can’t you just let us have these nice things, please.
I Think God Wanted Me to have a New Car
October 30 2019
On Boxing Day 2016, I was driving home from my parents, along a dual-lane street in the Perth CBD. I was in the left lane going straight, and someone was in the right lane, awaiting to turn right with a green light but no green arrow. For reasons they potentially don’t even understand, they veered out into my lane and sideswiped my poor blue Mazda 3.
Likely panicking, they quickly took off and turned right. I’m still not sure if it was just an instinctual reaction, and whether they would have soon snapped back to consciousness and stopped, or if they would have taken off and left behind the scene of the crime. Luckily, I didn’t get the chance to find out, because on the opposite side of the intersection, watching the whole thing unfold, was an undercover police car. As the kids say: lol.
I was fine. The poor P-plater in the other car seemed fine, as did his three friends. I thought my car was fine, except for a door that didn’t quite open with the lack of friction that was originally intended. The police took our details; the P-plater and I exchanged our details. He seemed relieved that my first reaction was joking that it was lucky he had a shit car, which in hindsight was slightly if appropriately passive-aggressive.
Not that I could talk. Turns out my car wasn’t fine.
A not-fine car that isn’t mine, included here for dramatic effect (Photo by Michael Jin on Unsplash)
My beloved blue 2004 Mazda 3 had been my only car, and while I had never had a crash, it did bear the battle scars of the great storm of 2010, when Perth was peppered by you-wish-they-were-only-the-size-of-golf-ball-sized hail stones that caused the most expensive natural disaster in Western Australia’s history. Think i’m joking? The storm has its own Wikipedia page.
Turns out these dings undermined the value of the car against its market value, and it was to be written off. I was gutted — such injustice!
I did a bit of searching for a new car, and knowing nothing and caring almost less about cars, was looking at another 2004 Mazda 3. Preferably blue — why undertake more change than necessary during times of such upheaval?
Then my dad was walking the dog, and noticed that his neighbours two blocks up were selling a 2004 Peugeot 307. A slightly darker shade of blue, regrettably. I walked up the street and had a test drive the next day. It wasn’t my car — it didn’t have the weirdly but comfortingly loose gear stick, for a start — but it seemed to drive okay.
It seemed a bit overpriced and needed new tyres, but they were flexible on the price. And they were neighbours who we knew and trusted, so I could avoid most of the normal BS that comes with buying a car. And at this stage it wasn’t worth overthinking, so I bought it.
Or we bought it. No, my parents bought it. The money from the insurance hadn’t come in yet, and as per usual (my whole life) I wasn’t flushed with excess cash, so my parents agreed to transfer the money. And which I still haven’t paid back. Whoops.
What is the point of this story, you might reasonably ask?
I could, and did at the time, see this event as something quite profound. I drove the 2 minute drive home, and tried to comprehend what had just happened. Looking back at my steam of consciousness diarising that night, it appears I found some sort of confirmation:
“We don’t choose our circumstances, but we choose what to make of them. What was that? I can choose to see that as a sign, a warning, a wake up call. But I don’t. I can can choose to see nothing, but I don’t. I choose confirmation. A car crash, maybe — but not all crashes are the same. Some are not our fault, some are still unavoidable. All can be faced with grace…and humour? Above all… You will be watching; I will be protected.”
That’s probably all true, if certainly poorly written. But in hindsight, I see it much more clearly.
I had a shit car. It was past its prime, dinged — it was cooked, done.
I was, not to my knowledge at that time, about to embark on a new chapter in my life, which would involve regularly driving to and from my now new home town of Esperance — between 7 and 8 hours each way, depending on how much you want to test the goodwill of the country road gods. As it turns out, Peugeot's are relatively unique in having 2004 models with cruise control — really handy for solo 7–8 hour car trips.
So, really, the whole incident added up to me having a free, new, better car.
I believe many things about God — the Protector, the All-Powerful, the All-Generous etc. Basically, all the good stuff. I also believe he has a wicked — no, divine — sense of humour.
In this case, I think He really just wanted me to have a new car, and thought He would f — k with me a bit along the way.
Here’s to finding the divine humour in everything.
Medium-ing My PhD
Photo by Honey Yanibel Minaya Cruz on Unsplash
October 18 2019
Humblebrag time: I have a PhD. Actually, there wasn’t much humble about that. The humility lies in the fact that probably 4 people have read it, and that number is highly unlikely to increase. Here’s where Medium might come in. What if I could write about my PhD here? Perfect!
Except… my PhD is about parks. As in, those things with grass, and trees, and usually a cheap plastic playground, and sometimes (hopefully) ducks. Who on MuddyUm is going to want to read about parks? I could try a haiku I guess…
Nature in city
A chance to transcend its shit
Weighed down by dog poo
What else do people on Medium like? Identity politics? Parks are good for revealing our true identity as part of and not separate from nature.
Anything anti-Trump? I’m sure there is something about Trump hating parks somewhere. (Googles “Trump defunding parks”.) Wow, he really does hate parks, unless they can be raped and pillaged for sweet fossil fuels.
I know. Relationships. Sex! Perfect. I present to you, my PhD research, simplified and explained through the timeless analogy (metaphor?) of a bizarre, gender-neutral love triangle.
“It’s Complicated”: the true story of Parks, Nature and Sport.
The Early Spark
The origins of this story can be found in the Industrial Revolution, a truly sordid time to be human. As lives became cramped, polluted and generally filthy, along came — like a green, well manicured angel from heaven — the Park. Lush, aesthetically-pleasing, moist (sorry); it was a divine form of relief that visits to these early Parks provided. The divine union, so it seemed, of Parks and Nature.
But what have we here? A new player in town: Sport. Sport knew how good a fit it could be for the Park, even if the Park couldn’t itself yet see it. Sport could do everything the park needed! Get people outdoors and active; bring people — all people! Everyone play sport right? — together; teach them about virtues like teamwork, adhering to rules, the fine line between friendly banter and bullying. Plus there was still nature. What the hell is grass if not nature?
The Courtship
Parks were torn. Sport was fresh, and exciting. Plus, Nature wasn’t perfect by any means. It was needy: rolling hills, diverse vegetation, non-lethal wildlife and vast amounts of space were all required to be properly effective. It was also picky: it was soon obvious that early Park landscapes increasingly favored the middle and upper class, rather than those they were originally provided to serve.
Yet… there was a long history of the role of natural landscapes in supporting human health and wellbeing, right through medieval times to early Greek, Roman and Persian civilizations, and back to, well, the Garden of Eden. It was, in short, a known quantity: a safe bet. There was, of course, never to be underestimated, the constricting influence of the parents: the decision making elite were loathe to encourage the frivolity of games and sports favored by lower, often immigrant, social groups: the dreaded plebes.
Not knowing any different, or better, Parks seemed more than content in this platonic arrangement. They may well have continued on as such had it not been caught up in broader forces already at play.
In the end, it was exceptional and tragic social circumstances, and the subsequent shifting in priorities and perspective this brings, that was the ultimate initiation of the union — bringing an end to Sport’s long wait. World War 1 had decimated the population of Western nations. Things were dire, and with the looming threat of a second, concerns were growing about the physical fitness and mental strength of the future front line. It was too much for Sport to stay quiet, and it began to make its case, forcefully.
The Consummation
It was hard to deny. The idea of Nature suddenly didn’t seem strong enough, urgent enough. There was an aloofness about it, in that it didn’t work hard enough — you had to come to it, and if you didn’t, well, that was your loss. But Sport wanted you, and knew that you needed it. It also had money, power and the military on its side.
The parents had come around as well; this wasn’t the time to be caught up in traditions. Sport was the solution for now, and just in case, they were quick to lock it in, through various forms of Government legislation. It was, it appeared, a match made in heaven. They had waited long enough, and sure enough, Parks and Sport didn’t waste any time.
And suddenly they were everywhere — like rabbits you might say. Parks, filled with grass — manicured, fertilized, heavily watered. And carparks. And lights. And clubrooms. And people — but not quiet, reflective people. Noisy people, aggressive people, sweaty people, whistling people. There was no need for Nature, save maybe a tree for shade, and a playing surface easy on the skin and knees.
The Spurned Lover
For Nature, to watch this unfold, it was brutal. Things were bad enough already, as it watched, and felt, itself being slowly eroded by the slow yet unrelenting march of suburban development. Parks were one of its last urban havens, and yet it seemed it was losing this as well. Yes, there were now backyards cropping up, but it was a poor substitute. Nature couldn’t be marginalized, or privatized: it was everywhere, and for everyone. It was time to fight back, even if it meant getting down to Sport’s level.
The fight began with the rise of the the environmental movement in the 1960s, often put down to Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring — its exposure of the harmful impacts of chemical industries, and more generally the harmful impacts of humans on the environment. Suddenly, the swinging 60s were in full swing: there were hippies, eco-feminists, environmental anarchists, guerrilla greenists, advocating fiercely for better acknowledgment of the environment in all aspects of public life. Once again, Parks felt itself being drawn away from a simple future by forces beyond its control.
The Regrets
Suddenly, there was trouble in paradise. Parks were increasingly looking into the past, rather than the future. Was Nature really that boring? Every park was different, a unique landscape with a unique recreational experience being created. Sport didn’t want this, or need this — for all it cared, every park could look the same, as long as it had the basics. It felt like just going through the motions. Sure, not everyone has that Natural beauty, but couldn’t Sport try just a little harder in its appearance?
And now it was Sport who was exposed to be needy. Parks found that, in catering for Sports expectations, it had excluded most of what it used to hold dear. It missed old friends: informal players, walkers, joggers, even those gentle souls who would just come to sit under a tree with a book — or no book at all, just to be there, because it loved the Park and that was enough.
Parks were also realizing that life, that recreation, had left it behind. Now there was dog walking, personal training, group fitness… even yoga and Tai Chi; Parks had always fancied itself the spiritual type. And gardening! Why had no-one told Parks about gardening, hiding in private all these years?
The Conscious Uncoupling
It would have been all too easy for Parks to cut and run. A rich and rewarding life lay ahead — this time earned and appreciated through the burden of experience. But Parks had also learnt their lesson, older and wiser. This time, they had to take it slow.
Parks knew that Sport was in a fragile state: for better or worse, Sport was dependent on Parks for its health and wellbeing. Where else could Sport go? Schools? Indoors? This had become bigger than them: a generation of young people — in their helmets, singlets, baseball caps, studded boots — depended on Sport and Parks, Sport through Parks.
It would not be an easy process, and there remains work to be done. Sacrifices have to be made. Sport can never hold the same place it once had; Parks, burdened by its previous lack of restraint, can never give the full commitment to its new life and love that it truly desires. But they will make it work: they have to stay together, or at least remain civil, for the kids.
The Second Chance
And thus we finish where we started: in Nature.
Nature, too, appeared cautious, perhaps fearing to give its heart back to someone who had in the past so damaged it; perhaps realizing its own unhealthy reliance on Parks in the past. Nature had found new partners to assist in its survival. Domestic gardens had also failed it, so it explored new avenues: vacant lots, schools, even rooftops. Nature had found a new found flexibility, it could almost be anywhere: a verge, a roundabout, an apartment balcony. It was not necessarily playing hard to get — its heart, it knew, always had been, and always would be, in Parks — but just branching out, hedging its bets.
Nature, in returning, had several key conditions. It had to be appreciated, not just for recreation, but for what it was, as nature. As habitat, as micro-climate control, as stormwater drainage, as not buildings. Much to Park’s chagrin, thinking it had finally escaped a needy partner, Nature had to be cared for, to be managed. It too was damaged — this relationship would require constant nurturing. Not just from government, the people paid to do it.
The Community. They had benefited too long from Nature’s selflessness; it was time it started to give back, through its own time. Maybe just planting a tree, maybe picking up rubbish, maybe weeding, maybe just not actively destroying it. Nature promised it would make it worth the Community’s while.
My First Three Months on Medium
Written in bonus manufactured-stream-of-consciousness format.
(Note: this piece was written for a satirical publication called ‘MuddyUm’ aimed to relentless take the piss about Medium. The word ‘Medium’ was banned from articles.)
I want to get serious with my writing. This place looks good. By writers for writers etc. vibe about it. First glance looks fairly apolitical, maybe leaning a bit left. Sounds like me. Oh what, you can even make money from it! Sold.
Start reading more articles, mainly on religion, crossing with social issues. Wait, religion is a social issue. Some interesting articles from progressive religious believers on LGBTQ issues. That’s good to see.
Most of my recommended articles are now on LGBTQ issues. Ok, but not really what I’m here for. Start ‘Customizing my Interests’ (hello data analytics, of course you have infiltrated here as well). Same articles keep appearing. Start to think there might be a bit of an agenda being pushed here. Not that there is anything wrong with that.
One blog in particular keeps being suggested (still is) after politely but guiltily saying I would like to ‘see less (just joking, fewer) articles like this one’. Starting to be a bit annoying. Shit, they might think I’m homophobic? Some of my best fr… no that will just make it worse.
Sorry, that was a bad start. So, looks like this place is fairly left wing. That’s cool, I’m not here for politics anyway. But, for the record, I’ve been really left wing most of my life. Not just some of my friends, but my whole family are raving lefties. Pretty sure I still am left wing. Or at least progressive (are they the same still?). God help me if I’m now right wing.
Speaking of which, I should probably start by writing about my religion which pretty much no-one has heard of. I’m sure that will be popular. Oh, there is actually a publication for religion, including ones pretty much no-one has heard of! Massive props to Interfaith Now.
Write a few stories. Get a few claps. Realise belatedly that you can give more than one clap. Feel bad for the handful of articles I gave one clap to. Hope they didn’t think I was being passive aggressive in my applause?
First MuddyUm Partner Program payment comes in at an even $2.00. Realise there is a steep hill to climb here. Thoughts of ‘diversifying’ my writing arise, likely a subconscious reaction to all those tech startup and ‘10 Things’ articles, but also useful. Assume someone has written an article called ‘10 Things I Hate about MuddyUm’ with an unlicensed photo of Heath Ledger (RIP).
Unlicensed Photo of Heath Ledger (RIP) from 10 Things I Hate About You
Start writing ‘poetry’. How TF am I writing ‘poetry’? Realise I’ve actually been writing ‘poetry’ since I was an emo kid getting high and writing down my tortured feelings about girls, just didn’t realise it might actually classify as poetry until now. Start getting lots (relatively speaking) of claps. Feel immensely grateful to the MuddyUm poetry community.
Realisation: maybe I can earn money this way to balance out my articles on religion that roughly 3 people outside of my Facebook friends read! 2nd MuddyUm Partner Program payment come in at less than a coffee (have recently had to switch to decaf soy, which makes this cut extra deep). Lol @ Making Money on MuddyUm. Can I claim that as an article title if someone hasn’t used it already?
Concurrent to this: realisation starts to dawn that it is odd that MuddyUm features articles and publications on the top of the home page that I have no interest in. Realise that it wouldn’t be an overstatement to say that I have literally no interest in articles about tech startups. Or ‘10 Things’ articles (who am I kidding, of course I do).
Seems more difficult than it should be to find the articles that I’m likely to actually be interested in. Consider that this should be one of the most basic functions of a site that clearly uses relatively advanced and not at all creepy data analytics.
Find several excellent articles that confirm, indeed, how ridiculous MuddyUm’s homepage is, and that ‘it didn’t used to be like this’. Feel better, but also slightly sad that I may have missed out on the MuddyUm glory days while I was too busy going nowhere on Wordpress (WadPrize? WhatPriest?).
Go down a rabbit hole of MuddyUm diss-articles, many by people who seem to be very successful on MuddyUm. Ponder whether some inverted Stockholm Syndrome situation is at play here. Decide not to make a joke about abusive MuddyUm relationships, given I’m already on thin ice after my previous LGBTQ episode.
Find MuddyUm (as in, this publication). Takes me a good 5 minutes before I realise it is a play on Med… that word. Laugh, but also: Oh God, what have I gotten myself into here.
(Warning, satire ends here.)
Go back to the publications that most people haven’t heard of. Realise that there is every chance that these people are clapping and commenting with no ulterior motive in mind, just because they like what I have written.
Realise that, as cliched as it sounds, having only one person genuinely enjoy and be affected by your article is better than a free decaf Bonsoy cap.
Realise that I just started a Music publication within someone 24 hours after I had first communicated with them through a Facebook comment.
Realise that this is the outlet for my writing that I didn’t even realise I had been looking for. Get slightly emotional.
Realise that, ahhhh yes, that’s what I’ve got myself into here.