“Algorithms don’t predict your next move—they plot your next panic.”
It starts as nothing: midnight blue light, thumb on autopilot, a siren emoji on a headline you don’t remember following. You pause. The pause is the purchase. The next swipe is louder: a “near miss,” a shaky confession, someone saying they “can’t believe no one’s talking about this.” Your chest tightens a millimeter. The machine notices. By the fourth swipe, your feed has reupholstered itself in hazard tape. You’re not looking for danger anymore; danger is looking for you.
- Fear is the stickiest fuel, so the feed keeps you slightly terrified.
- Models map your panic buttons and A/B-test nightmares until you flinch.
- Starve it with short checks, off-profile clicks, and a single-pass verify.
You tell yourself it’s just staying informed. But your eyes are doing micro-tremors, your breath’s gone shallow, and you’ll wake up tomorrow calling that adrenaline “research.” The thing you felt wasn’t a warning—it was a win condition for someone else’s dashboard.
Fear Is the Business Model
Platforms don’t sell truth; they sell time-on-site. Fear is industrial-grade glue. Outrage, dread, moral disgust—these emotions give you tunnel vision, and tunnels monetize better than open skies. So the system quietly optimizes for the emotional state that keeps you hooked longest: you, slightly terrified.
Mapping Your Panic Buttons
No mysticism—just pattern abuse. You pause on “contamination,” it notices. You rewatch the clip with sirens, it notices. You comment “this is insane,” it smiles—signal received. The model sketches a fear-map of you and starts running experiments: three thumbnails, two headlines, one what if that tastes like bile. The winner gets cloned until it feels like your worldview. It isn’t. It’s calibration.
The Recipes (Boring because they work)
They’re coming for your kids/values.
Experts lied; here’s the “real” tape.
Last chance before the system locks down.
Invisible toxins / hidden code / tainted food.
I almost fell for it—don’t be me.
Remixed in your colors, your font, your voice. Tell me that doesn’t land harder than a random headline.
How You Get Rewritten
You twitch → you click → the model escalates. After a week, your feed looks like a bunker. After a month, you do. Sleep frays. Patience thins. Purchases get defensive. You start calling relapse “research” because it comes with citations. The system doesn’t need you paranoid; it needs you predictable. Paranoia just happens to be predictable.
Break the Spell (Without Going Off-Grid)
When a post spikes your nervous system, freeze. Ask one sentence: What would disprove this? If you can’t answer, it’s bait. Put a clock on the tunnel—ten minutes, then out. One search, two sources, done. Then poison the profile on purpose: nature videos, slow crafts, long interviews, an hour of someone restoring a toaster. You’re not optimizing; you’re de-training. Bonus: call someone who loves you and hates your takes. That’s your control group.
Return to Sender
Your nightmare was A/B-tested and gift-wrapped in your aesthetics. Send it back unopened. Curiosity is yours; panic is leased. Stop making payments.
