programmed frustration hits different

the paradox of programmed frustration

so there i am, scrolling through my own brain like it’s someone else’s social media feed, and i have that moment. you know the one where you realize you’re deeply annoyed at your own tech. like, mate, i programmed myself into a corner and now i’m mad at the wall i built. mental whiplash on steroids.

frustration with automation is such a stupid trap. it’s like you set a trap for yourself, forget you did it, then step right into it again. every time i think this time i’ll navigate stuff without a headache, bam—there’s my own bloody algorithms ruining my day. why do i keep falling for my own traps? am i cursed?
do i hate myself that much?

it’s wild because i know the shortcuts and scripts exist; i wrote them. you’d think knowing that makes it less painful, but nah. if anything, knowing makes it worse—because now i’m aware of the crime i’ve committed against my future self.

and here’s the sick part: after getting properly annoyed and wasting twenty minutes on something i could’ve fixed in two seconds—there’s a weird, almost zen moment where i’m just like okay, this is me. this is the porcelain clutch i’ve made for myself. no one’s coming to save me from my own brainrot.

lightbulb: maybe i should just stop trying to automate my suffering. or wait—no, my brain whispers, that’s too much effort too. and somehow, both options are completely cooked.

so yeah, i’m stuck in this paradox: i programmed the frustration, but now i’m genuinely annoyed at myself for doing it. it’s like i’ve made an existential spaghetti dish and now i’m mad i cooked it wrong. this is either a breakdown of my own design or some cosmic joke. probably both.

anyway, if you’re out there experiencing this, congratulations—you’re officially in the club of people who have programmed their own annoyance into existence. the membership card is mental.

i guess the takeaway is probably to just lean into it, but also maybe set gentle limits before you go full digital marauder. or don’t—i can’t tell you what to do because i’ve already done seven things wrong today.

the burnt mood’s been really keen on reminding me i’m a walking paradox of competence and frustration, and honestly, that’s the only consistent thing about this whole mess.