"A deep dive into the gloriously miserable world of hyper-optimized self-torture—because true happiness begins with a Bluetooth-enabled breakdown."

People often ask me why I track everything in my life down to the subatomic vibration of a thought. "Doesn't that seem a bit… excessive?"

To which I respond: "That's precisely the point. Therefore, I am fulfilled."

Let me explain: I don't measure things to gain control over my life. I measure them because it hurts. It is exhausting, soul-fracturing, and profoundly destabilizing—and that's the point. The goal isn't comfort. It's high-definition agony in spreadsheet form. Because suffering is the compost pile from which happiness blooms, and my garden is blooming like a motherf*****r.

The Setup

I use 73 tracking apps, each monitoring a different slice of my despair:

• Mood fluctuations per Slack notification
• Micronutrient resentment index (MRI)™
• Hourly regret audits
• Voice-tone sharpness during passive-aggressive affirmations

My Apple Watch taps me every time I think something non-optimized. My Oura ring sends me a polite reminder that I should probably reconsider existing. Even my urine glows judgmentally. That's how well-calibrated my sadness stack is.

The Joy of Structured Misery

You see, modern society has confused joy with pleasure. What amateurs. Real joy is waking up at 4:02 a.m., logging your cortisol tremors, and whispering:

"We're on track to cry by noon. Excellent."

It's knowing your resting heart rate spikes whenever someone uses the word 'balance', and logging it dutifully with tears in your eyes and pride in your chest.

Suffering becomes sacred when it's sliced into line graphs. I've turned every inconvenience into a data point of doom. It's like self-harm, but make it SaaS.

Friends and Family Are Deeply Concerned

Sure, my social life has cratered. Friends stopped inviting me out after I asked to bring my continuous blood-glucose monitor to a wedding. My partner left after I tried to track the emotional ROI of our arguments. But again, this is all by design.

Loneliness? Measurable. Emotional detachment? Quantifiable. Happiness? A cruel illusion—unless reverse-engineered through exquisite suffering.

The Breakthrough

The breakthrough didn't come from clarity. It came from collapse.

One night, I found myself crying into my meal-prepped quinoa, which I track by emotional weight per forkful, and realized: the pain wasn't in the data. It was the data.

That's when I developed Recursive Agony Protocol™—a closed-loop system where I track the psychological cost of tracking itself. Now, every time I log a metric, I also log how logging that metric made me feel. Spoiler: it hurts.

I once logged the time it took to log how long it took to log something. I blacked out from joy. Woke up surrounded by blinking dashboards and the faint smell of lavender despair.

Since then, I've installed mirrors behind every screen so I can witness myself witnessing. I call it Observational Suffering 2.0. I haven't made eye contact with a human in three weeks—only graphs, and occasionally, my own reflection whispering, "Log that."

Final Thoughts

So yes, I track everything. Not to feel better—God no—but to refine my suffering into a boutique, micro-batched, ethically sourced emotional collapse.

Each quantified breakdown is hand-curated. My anxiety is free-range. My misery is slow-fermented in a humidity-controlled spreadsheet environment. This isn't life improvement—it's emotional CrossFit for the soul, and my gains are immaculate.

I've replaced happiness with something far more sustainable: data-enhanced anguish with artisanal flair. I weep in metrics. I rejoice in regret. I am now the sum total of 14 million mood points and a biologically optimized scream.