I met up with an old friend today. Not because I wanted to but because he said it was time and I was running out of excuses to postpone it. This friend brings out a side of me I dislike — the me that would, if I let him, get lost in all manner of self-optimizations and “life hacks”. Over decaf coffees, we discussed gym routines, calorie trackers, the best way to treat a shoulder impingement, protein shake recipes, the optimal amount of dietary fibre (and the joys of psyllium husk), work-life balance, and our favourite AI apps. This is the me that resembles the shape of the internet: inward-looking and autistic, plotting the next atomic habit to self-actualization. Since he does a better Huberman impression than I do, he does most of the talking. I ask the questions. He becomes my AI bot, helping me iron out lingering inefficiencies. Needless to say, his advice is backed by science and sound common sense. To hear is to believe. I enter a space where soundbites begin to resemble sentences. I ignore the glib, melamine nature of the words because the content is delivered with sincerity. A few months from now he will be proposing something else, a new “hack”, with equal sincerity. What distresses me is not the vain burble that passes for discourse, but myself, my own disavowed ambitions staring back at me. In my pursuit of progress, I come face to face with regression.