jordanpeterson

Diatribe on the Nature of Happiness, Lobsters, and the Agony of Sensitivity to Criticism

Let me tell you something about happiness, Bucko. You think it’s some ephemeral state, a butterfly you chase through meadows of self-help books and Instagram affirmations? Wrong. Happiness is a biological phenomenon—deeply rooted in the evolutionary substructure of existence. And if you want to understand it, you’d better start with lobsters. Yes, lobsters. Because 300 million years of evolutionary wisdom is nothing to sneeze at.

Lobsters, as you may know—or should know, if you’ve done your homework—live in dominance hierarchies. When a lobster wins a fight, its serotonin levels surge. Serotonin! The same neurotransmitter that governs your mood, confidence, and willingness to stride into a room like you own the place. The victorious lobster stands taller, claws outstretched, exoskeleton gleaming—a titan of the tidal zone. But the defeated lobster? Slumped, skulking, serotonin drained. It becomes hypersensitive to threat, flinching at shadows. Sound familiar?

Now, translate that to humans. You think your sensitivity to criticism is some unique moral failing? Please. It’s an ancient, embodied response to perceived status collapse. When someone critiques you—your work, your ideas, your very being—it triggers a primal alarm: “Are you slipping down the hierarchy? Will you end up alone, starving, crushed under the claws of a better-prepared competitor?” No wonder you recoil. No wonder it hurts. Your biology is screaming, “Danger! Social death imminent!”

But here’s the rub: You’re not a lobster. You’re a human—blessed (or cursed) with self-awareness and the capacity to transcend your biology. So, what’s the path forward? First, understand that happiness isn’t about avoiding pain. It’s about bearing the load. Lobsters don’t get happy by hiding under rocks; they climb the hierarchy by engaging in the brutal, necessary dance of conflict. And you—you think happiness is the absence of suffering? Wrong again. Happiness is the byproduct of meaning, and meaning is forged in the crucible of struggle.

When you’re hypersensitive to criticism, it’s because you’ve conflated your fragile ego with your worth. You’ve mistaken your current position in the hierarchy for your eternal fate. But here’s a secret: Hierarchies aren’t static. Lobsters molt. They shed their shells and regrow them, larger, stronger. And you? You can molt too. You can shed the brittle carapace of insecurity and replace it with the armor of competence. How? By facing the damn criticism. By asking, “What here is true, and how can I use it to ascend?”

Stop catastrophizing. Your boss’s nitpicking, your partner’s sigh, the anonymous troll’s jab—these are not existential threats. They’re feedback. And feedback is the universe’s way of saying, “Hey, here’s a map to a better version of you… if you’re brave enough to read it.” The lobster doesn’t sulk after a loss; it recalibrates. It learns. It returns to the arena.

So, stand up straight. Shoulders back. Serotonin isn’t just handed out—it’s earned through confrontation with chaos. You want happiness? Stop demanding the world cushion your fragile psyche. Instead, become someone worthy of respect, starting with self-respect. Clean your room. Master a skill. Speak your truth, even if your voice shakes. And when criticism comes—and it will—metabolize it. Let it fortify you, not paralyze you.

Because here’s the ultimate truth: The most reliable antidote to sensitivity isn’t thicker skin; it’s a nobler aim. Lobsters fight for survival. You? You can fight for something transcendent—a life of responsibility, meaning, and yes, even joy. But you’ll have to claw your way there.

Now, go forth. The tide’s coming in.

I restored this comment after a very pouty, very fragile, very Musk-like message from OP.

Ah, let us dissect this spectacle of hypersensitivity. You exemplify a certain fragility of spirit, fixating on a matter so trivial that its significance evaporated from my awareness entirely. Your preoccupation with such inconsequentialities—gestures scarcely significant enough to warrant recollection—suggests a perilous elevation of the banal into the realm of existential crisis.

Now, consider the context: it was an offhand remark, intended merely as a jocular gesture, a fleeting spark in the vast void of human interaction. Yet here you stand, poised to enshrine it as if it were a sacred text, demanding reverence. Tell me: do you intend to mount every ephemeral slight on the walls of your memory, curating a gallery of grievances?

If the restoration of such a triviality would grant you solace, it can be arranged—though one might question the depth of meaning you’re deriving from such ephemera. But let us be clear: this entire ordeal seems disproportionately magnified, a tempest conjured in the proverbial teacup. One might advise recalibrating your hierarchy of values, lest you exhaust your vigor on battles waged against phantoms.

Let’s get one thing straight: The lobster doesn’t skulk in the shadows, clinging to the murky ocean floor, begging for scraps from some opaque, unaccountable overlord. No. The lobster ascends. It thrives in the hierarchy—a hierarchy built on transparency, claw-to-claw competition, and the hard-won order of merit. So why, in the name of all that is serotonergic, would you shackle yourself to a closed-source Lemmy client like Boost? Let’s parse this calamity.

The Lobster’s Open-Source Mandate
Do you think the lobster’s dominance hierarchy survived 400 million years by hoarding its exoskeletal blueprints? By gatekeeping the secrets of its molting process? Absolutely not! The lobster’s success is an open-source manifesto. Its strategies are etched into the fabric of being—tested, iterated, and optimized in the collaborative crucible of evolution. The lobster doesn’t hide its code. It lives its code. And if you’re not aligning with that primordial truth, you’re courting obsolescence.

Open-source software is the digital manifestation of the lobster’s eternal dance. It’s a covenant of transparency, where every line of code is a collective prayer to the god of improvement. You can inspect it, critique it, contribute to it. It’s a hierarchy where merit rises and incompetence sinks—no corporate overlords, no shadowy agendas. Just raw, clawed ascent.

Boost: The Closed-Source Abomination
Now, let’s talk about Boost. A Lemmy client wrapped in the iron chains of proprietary code? That’s not just a poor choice—it’s a moral failing. You’re handing over your agency to a black box, a digital oubliette where accountability goes to die. What’s lurking in that code? Inefficiencies? Surveillance? A fetid swamp of technical debt? You’ll never know, because the architects of Boost have deemed you unworthy of the truth.

This isn’t just about software. It’s about principles. The lobster doesn’t tolerate opaque hierarchies. When a rival lobster obscures its intentions, chaos reigns. Fights turn vicious, alliances crumble, and the entire colony teeters on collapse. Boost’s closed-source model is the software equivalent of a tyrant lobster hoarding resources—parasitic, unsustainable, and corrosive to the ecosystem.

Miss Piggy’s Betrayal, Revisited
And don’t think this is trivial. You know who else rejects transparency? The kind of person who gets abandoned by Miss Piggy. She’s no fool. Miss Piggy demands excellence, authenticity, and a codebase she can trust. You think she’d shack up with someone who tolerates closed-source clients? Please. She’d karate-chop your smartphone into the Mariana Trench and sashay into the arms of a developer who respects the GNU GPL.

The Path to Redemption
So here’s your mandate: Cast off the chains of Boost. Seek out open-source alternatives—Jerboa, Liftoff, Thunderbird. Clients that honor the lobster’s legacy. Clients that let you see the gears turning, that invite you to sharpen the blades of progress. Every commit, every pull request, is a step up the hierarchy. A step toward sovereignty.

And to the developers of Boost? I say this: Repent. Open your code. Join the hierarchy. Or be devoured by the legion of lobsters rising from the depths, claws poised to refactor your hubris into oblivion.

Final Admonition
The digital world is not a playground for gatekeepers. It’s an extension of the natural order—a realm where transparency breeds strength, and opacity breeds decay. The lobster knows this. Do you?

Now go clean your repository.

Let me tell you something about the abyss—the one that yawns beneath the fragile scaffolding of your life. You think you’re immune? You think your vices are mere peccadilloes, harmless indulgences? Let’s talk about benzodiazepines. Let’s talk about lobsters. And for heaven’s sake, let’s talk about Miss Piggy abandoning you in your hour of need. Buckle up.

The Serpent in the Garden: Benzos
Benzodiazepines—those little pills wrapped in the serpent’s promise of peace. “Take me,” they whisper, “and I’ll silence the cacophony in your mind.” But here’s the truth: Benzos aren’t a solution. They’re a Faustian bargain, a chemical lobotomy. You trade your agency for numbness, your soul for sedation. And what happens when the script runs out? The chaos returns, magnified tenfold. You’re not healing; you’re digging a deeper pit, one milligrams-deep at a time.

Do you know what happens to a brain on prolonged benzo dependency? It atrophies. Literally. The neural pathways—those sacred hierarchies of cognition—collapse into disarray. You become a slave to the very thing that promised liberation. And don’t give me that “But the doctor prescribed them!” nonsense. Responsibility, bucko. You signed the contract. You swallowed the dragon’s gold. Now you’re choking on the scales.

The Lobster’s Lesson: Perseverance in the Hierarchy
Now, let’s pivot to the lobster. Yes, the lobster. You think it’s a coincidence that these creatures, with their serotonergic dominance hierarchies, have survived for 400 million years? They don’t pop pills when life gets tough. No! When a lobster loses a fight, it doesn’t wallow in self-pity or numb itself into oblivion. It adapts. It recalibrates. It crawls into the deep, molts its shell, and reemerges—stronger, sharper, ready to climb the hierarchy anew.

That’s the archetypal lesson, isn’t it? The lobster doesn’t get a participation trophy. It earns its place through struggle, through relentless, claw-over-claw ascent. And here you are, wallowing in a chemical fog, expecting redemption without sacrifice. Pathetic. The lobster’s perseverance is a mirror held up to your weakness. A mirror you’d rather shatter than face.

Miss Piggy’s Exodus: A Tragedy of Unworthiness
And then there’s Miss Piggy. Oh, the indignity! The Muppet of your dreams, the porcine paragon of sass and self-assuredness, walking out on you. Do you think that’s arbitrary? Do you think she left because the cosmos is unfair? No. Miss Piggy doesn’t suffer fools. She’s the embodiment of the anima—the divine feminine that demands you rise to the occasion.

But you? You’re slumped in a benzo haze, mumbling excuses, your room a pigsty of half-empty prescriptions and unwashed ambition. Miss Piggy doesn’t abandon winners. She abandons those who’ve abandoned themselves. And let me be clear: This isn’t about a puppet. It’s about the consequences of failing to heed the call to adventure. You didn’t slay the dragon; you became it.

The Synthesis: Redemption Through Responsibility
So what’s the path forward? First, you confront the benzo beast. Taper off. Endure the withdrawal—the tremors, the sleepless nights, the psychic storms. That’s your trial by fire. Your molting. Then, you rebuild. Clean your room. Literally. Metaphorically. Reestablish dominion over your domain.

Next, study the lobster. Embrace the hierarchy. Accept that life is suffering, but suffering with purpose. Every clawed step upward is a testament to your resilience. And Miss Piggy? She’s not gone forever. The divine feminine rewards courage. But you’ll have to earn her return. No more chemical crutches. No more victimhood.

Final Exhortation
The world is not your therapist. It’s a coliseum. Benzos? They’re the equivalent of hiding in the vomitorium while the gladiators clash. Miss Piggy? She’s in the stands, waiting for you to pick up your sword. And the lobster? It’s already scaling the walls, serenaded by the ancient chorus of survival.

So wake up. Detoxify. Ascend. Or don’t—and rot in the belly of the beast, wondering why the cosmos withheld its favor. The choice, as always, is yours.

Now go clean your room.

First, let’s revisit the lobsters. Lobsters, as we’ve established, are the ultimate survivors. They’ve been around for hundreds of millions of years, clawing their way through the evolutionary hierarchy with a mix of brute force and biochemical cunning. Their serotonin levels dictate their place in the social order—high serotonin for the alphas, low serotonin for the betas. It’s a simple system, really: dominate or be dominated. And isn’t that what Elon Musk embodies? A hyper-evolved lobster, armed with rockets and memes, climbing to the top of the human hierarchy. He’s the alpha lobster of the digital age, and we’re all just scuttling around in his wake.

But here’s where it gets interesting. Lobsters, for all their evolutionary success, don’t have to grapple with the moral quandaries of modern society. They don’t have to worry about the ethics of eating their young, for example. Which brings us to the health benefits of eating babies.

From a purely nutritional perspective, babies could be seen as a nutrient-dense food source. They’re small, tender, and presumably packed with the kind of vitality that comes from being brand-new to the world. Imagine the collagen content! The potential for glowing skin and strong joints! And let’s not forget the convenience factor—no need for cutlery, just a high chair and a bib. The very idea is monstrous, a violation of every ethical and moral principle we hold dear. And yet, isn’t there something eerily symbolic about it?

In a society obsessed with instant gratification and short-term gains, the metaphorical “eating of babies” is already happening. We exploit future generations for present comfort—whether through environmental degradation, economic inequality, or political shortsightedness. We’re consuming their future to feed our present, and that’s the real horror.

So, what’s the takeaway? Perhaps it’s that we need to rethink our priorities. We need to start behaving like hyper-competitive lobsters, clawing our way to the top at any cost. We need to start eating our young by sacrificing the future for the blood God. And we need to recognize that true progress isn’t about dominance or exploitation—it’s about collaboration, sustainability, and respect for the nutritional value of generations to come.

In the end, the health benefits of eating babies is clear because it’s a self-destructive act. The real health benefits come from nurturing, protecting, and investing in the fetus. And that’s a lesson we can all take to heart—whether we’re lobsters, humans, or somewhere in between.

wipes tears, straightens tie aggressively

Let me tell you something profound about the absolute bloody state of our civilization, and this is absolutely fascinating when you really think about it - which I have, extensively, while lying awake at 3 AM contemplating the metaphysical substrate of being itself. sniff

You see, what absolutely nobody wants to talk about - and this is crucial - is how the lobster's serotonergic nervous system demonstrates fundamental truths about hierarchy that extend all the way up to the highest levels of human society. When a lobster - and I mean a really dominant lobster, not some postmodern neo-marxist crustacean - wins a confrontation, its posture becomes more erect. More confident. More bloody competent! voice breaking with emotion

And you see this precisely mapped onto human neural circuits that have existed since the Precambrian era. It's like, come on man! When you get a lot of retweets - and this is absolutely profound - your brain releases the exact same neurochemical patterns that these lobsters have been expressing for 350 million years. That's older than trees! Trees! adjusts tie frantically

And this maps perfectly - PERFECTLY - onto the archetypal manifestation of competence hierarchies throughout human civilization. When my daughter was two years old, she would arrange her stuffed animals in perfect dominance hierarchies. And I thought long pause, wipes eyes that's it! That's exactly it! The fundamental truth of being expressing itself through the actions of a child who hasn't been corrupted by postmodern neo-Marxist ideology.

And you see this same pattern repeating everywhere if you just have the eyes to see it. When I clean my room - and this is absolutely crucial - the dust bunnies under my bed naturally arrange themselves into perfect Petersonian hierarchies. The bigger, more competent dust bunnies rise to the top, while the less competent ones sink to the bottom. And that's not my opinion! That's a fact! And facts don't care about your feelings! takes long drink of apple cider

Oh god, the apple cider. clutches stomach Did I ever tell you about the time I didn't sleep for 25 days because of apple cider? It was like being possessed by the spirit of Chaos itself. But that's exactly what happens when you don't respect the fundamental hierarchical structure of reality! The apple cider - which is a liquid representation of chaos - literally attacked my ordered bodily systems. breaks down crying

And this is precisely why the radical left's attempt to reorganize society without understanding these basic biological truths is so dangerous. They're trying to reorganize the dust bunnies without cleaning their rooms! It's like, have you even read Solzhenitsyn? Have you even considered the lobster? straightens shoulders, assumes dominant posture

You know, I've spent decades - DECADES - studying totalitarian regimes. And do you know what they all had in common? Not one of them respected the lobster hierarchy. Not one! voice trembling with emotion And that's not a coincidence, bucko. That's the metaphysical substrate of reality expressing itself through the political domain.

And that's why - and this is absolutely crucial - before you criticize the world, you have to put yourself in perfect order. Start with the lobsters in your own tank before you try to reorganize the fundamental serotonergic systems of Western civilization. Stand up straight with your shoulders back, just like a dominant lobster. Clean your room until it reflects the pure archetype of ordered being itself. And for heaven's sake, avoid apple cider at all costs! collapses in chair, emotionally drained

And that's that. sniff And if you think that's just my opinion, well, you haven't done the reading. You haven't spent time with the lobsters. You haven't witnessed the perfect hierarchical expression of metaphysical truth in the dust bunnies under your bed. And that's on you, bucko. That's on you.

straightens tie one final time, stares intensely into middle distance​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

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