Catherine Baab Muguira

On November 9, millions of people woke up to a nightmare. But Tim Heidecker, who writes and stars in Adult Swim’s Decker–part spy spoof, part absurdist rightwing fever dream–found himself in an eerily, uncannily prescient position.

When I realized my hair was turning orange under the white dye goo, I finally hit send on the text I was hoping to avoid: “EMERGENCY. I’m getting something really stupid done to my hair.”

What happens when a generation raised with a “you can be whatever you want to be” ethos meets the worst job market in years?

Yesterday, my husband and I had the dumbest fight in the history of our relationship. Were the takeout Belgian waffles I’d brought home for breakfast too small, or just the right size?

This low-budget stoner-y Adult Swim show is a masterpiece, a great work of art.

A few weeks ago, I was visiting New York City, standing in the top floor of The Whitney, staring at the museum’s giant burning candle of Julian Schnabel, when God spoke to me.

The more human a robot appears, the more uneasy it makes you feel. This principle, introduced by the Japanese roboticist Masahiro Mori in 1970 and known as the “uncanny valley,” applies to HBO’s “Westworld,” too. What at first seemed like just another premium cable prestige drama tricked out with the usual violence and toplessness has turned out to be an eerily accurate depiction of our own world.

I wrote this article in Focus mode, like everything else I write.

I moved to New Zealand from the US in the usual, time-honored fashion. First, I got rejected from every graduate school I’d applied to. Then I pulled out a calendar and contemplated spending another year in my soul-killing, $10-an-hour receptionist job. Then I started crying.

I was overjoyed when, several years ago, my colleague Scott instant-messaged me from across our open-plan office. “I just got asked if I have a best friend at work,” he’d written, “and I said yes because IT’S YOU.”

I met my husband at a TGI Friday’s. You might not think that novelty license plates and mozzarella cheese sticks are the stuff romantic dreams are made of. But within a few days, I was wearing an engagement ring.

Even as I typed his name into Google, I knew I was making a terrible mistake.

Some people can do self-improvement without self-loathing or recrimination, without descending into the kind of zealous frenzy that prompts strangers to ask, “Is there someone I can call?” I am not one of them.

The white-haired old guy who inspired me to rush home and write out a five-figure check was not an investment advisor or a lifestyle-design guru. I never even learned his name. We only met because I happened to be sitting in the café car of a Washington DC-bound Amtrak when he got on board. And started drinking.

Life is all about disappointing yourself in manageable ways.