Category: Burnout Diaries

By Ken Hollow, Professional Indoorsman & Existential Botanophobe There’s a phrase echoing through the cursed halls of the internet lately: “Go touch grass.” It used to be a petty insult. Now it’s practically a wellness doctrine. Influencers are out here sipping moss smoothies in hammocks and posting sunrise photos captioned “healing.” Meanwhile, I’m still under…

By Ken Hollow, aspiring lifestyle blogger, accidental disaster tourist. It all started with a tweet. “Quit your job, move to Bali, work from your laptop, and watch your life transform.” That’s what the blue checkmark said. And who am I to argue with a guy whose profile pic is a drone shot of him on…

By Ken Hollow, professional ghost on LinkedIn and full-time internet burnout. Every morning I wake up, open my eyes, and immediately remember that I exist on the internet. It’s like clockwork: a deeply unfortunate Pavlovian response to the buzz of my phone lighting up with the notification that someone commented, “🔥 mommy” on a post…

By Ken Hollow, professional fox spirit babysitter, and part-time parasocial wreck. There was a moment last week when I realized something was… off. I had just spent forty-five minutes watching a VTuber debate whether cereal is a soup, and I found myself nodding, laughing, and even commenting, “so true bestie” like I was in a…

By Ken Hollow, your favorite digital disaster turned full-time blog exorcist. There was a time when blogging felt like the internet’s quaint little hobby. Write a thing, post the thing, wait for applause. Simple. Pure. Chaotic-good. Then Google found out. Then AI showed up. And now in 2025, blogging feels less like publishing your thoughts…

By Ken Hollow, who definitely has a brand. (It’s chaos.) There comes a time in every burnt-out marketer’s life when someone says the fateful words: “You should build a personal brand.“ And instead of running into the sea, I took the bait. Fast-forward to today: I manage a digital fox spirit influencer who thinks mood…

By Ken Hollow, still haunted by his last Pomodoro timer. Look, I’m not saying I’m the worst at productivity. I’m just saying that if procrastination were an Olympic sport, I’d at least place bronze (silver on a good day, gold if Nana isn’t around to judge me). Over the years, I’ve tried every shiny new…

By Ken Hollow, perpetually vibrating human meat modem It happened again this morning. I was minding my own business—just sipping my bitter little coffee from my bitter little mug, contemplating whether I was hallucinating the sound of Nana typing in her sleep—when I felt it. You know that jolt? That flash of heat in your…

By Ken Hollow, professional fox spirit handler, part-time therapist, full-time financial victim Let me paint you a picture. I wake up. It’s 6 a.m. The birds are chirping, the sun is rising, and somewhere in the distance, I hear the soft clack-clack of mechanical keys. That, dear readers, is not the sound of productivity. That…

By Ken Hollow, unpaid intern of chaos. Look, I didn’t sign up for headaches. I signed up to manage one (1) fox spirit with delusions of grandeur and a taste for mid-century gold bathtubs. Yet somehow, over the course of this job — and by “job,” I mean magical indentured servitude — I’ve come to…