The Cost of Staying Mad

I pay twenty bucks a month for my daily adrenaline fix.

My mad-on.

That’s the business model now.

We pay to stay furious.

And the folks we’re paying? They’re on the hook to deliver gloom, doom, and righteous fury every damn day. Because let’s be honest—no liberal wants to wake up and read that Fat Ass did something halfway decent. We want stories where he’s actively screwing someone’s pooch. Bonus points for photos. Preferably blurred, preferably horrifying.

At this point, the only good news we’re looking for would come in the form of an obituary.

So I sit here, trying to write something funny. Something stupid. Something that doesn’t involve fire, indictments, or end-stage democracy.

Because I can’t—and won’t—shovel rage for a living.

But apparently, that’s what it takes to be read.

And it leaves me wondering.

So I asked Dr. Rosenthal, my psychiatrist, the one question that’s been circling the drain in my brain:

“Can we really keep feasting on this shit show every day for the next three and a half years?

And if so—at what cost?

What’s left of us by the end?”

Dr. Rosenthal didn’t even look up.

“Turn off the TV,” he said. “Close the browser. Log off Substack.”

I stared at him like he’d just suggested I stop breathing.

“That’s it? That’s the advice?”

“You asked how to stay sane. Not how to stay informed.”

He went back to scribbling in his sleek Moleskine notebook. Probably writing *‘Client spiraling again. Prescribe sarcasm, as needed.’*

I continued, “Easy for you to say. You live above your own office in a luxury two-flat on Fullerton with exposed brick and central air. You’re not exactly swimming in MAGA mail.”

“True,” he said with casual superiority. “But I also share a block with three weed shops, a conspiracy podcaster, and a guy who power-washes his sidewalk at 6 a.m. *This* is me staying detached.”

“I need a cigarette.”

“You quit smoking, remember?” he said to me.”

“I’m stressed out. Bruce Springsteen might get...arrested.”

“You don’t even like Bruce Springsteen,” Dr. Rosenthal said.

“I do now! But, enough about me,” I said, crossing my legs and trying to sound casual.

“Yeah,” Sid muttered without looking up, “like that ever happens.”

“No, I’m serious this time. What are the long-term effects of people living in a constant state of agitation? There’s gotta be a name for it. Some medical jargon. A syndrome. Like… Panic Fatigue. Or ‘Oh Shit Disorder.’”

He leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers, and gave me his You’re not wrong, but I hate how you say it look.

“You’re referring to chronic hypervigilance. It’s part of the body’s stress response. When someone is stuck in fight-or-flight for prolonged periods, they can’t regulate cortisol. You start seeing elevated blood pressure, adrenal fatigue, sleep disruption, mood instability, impaired immune function…”

“You just described everyone I know,” I said.

“Exactly.”

He paused.

“It’s what we call allostatic overload.”

“Sounds like a band I dated in the ’80s.”

“It means your body and mind are constantly adapting to perceived threats—real or imagined. And eventually, the system breaks down. Not with a bang. But with migraines, inflammation, insomnia, weight gain, ulcers, rage spirals, and dissociation.”

I stared at him. “Okay, Doc. We’ve identified the syndrome. Named the hormone. Traced the collapse. So… what’s the answer?”

I expected a quote from Jung. A parable. Maybe something with a metaphor about broken compasses and internal north stars.

But Sid just smiled and said:

“Like Sidney Freedman said on *M*A*S*H*…

*‘Pull down your pants and slide on the ice.’*”

I blinked. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“That’s your professional advice?”

“It’s clinically unproven, but emotionally satisfying.”

I stood up, swung my purse over my shoulder like I was heading into combat, and declared:

“I’m not paying for this session.”

“Because the advice came from a television writer?”

“Exactly.”

“Fair.”

He didn’t argue. Didn’t even look surprised. Just scribbled something in his notes as I marched to the door like a woman wronged.

“See you next week,” he called.

“Not unless you quote Tolstoy,” I snapped.

“That’ll cost extra.”

He looked up as I reached for the door.

“Zee… are you okay?”

“Me? Fantastic. I’m going home to write a funny story about a psychiatrist who lives above his office, quotes sitcoms as treatment plans, and secretly masturbates to Sean Hannity.”

His jaw dropped. His pen froze mid-air.

“That’s libel.”

“No, Sid. That’s comedy.”

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Ask Dr. Rosenthal is a recurring column where I bring my emotional roadkill to a fictional therapist and he pretends not to flinch.

He’s calm, clinical, and always two sighs away from retirement.

I don’t know if he’s helping—but at least he listens.

— Zee Zee

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