all of you Letterboxd users terrify me (but you also make me jealous)
On the torture of watching other people be Perfectly Consistent.
A quick note & housekeeping before we get into it:
What you’re about to read is very personal. In writing honestly about my own insecurities, it sometimes can feel a bit of a sacrifice. So, if you read this and you think it’s you I’m talking about…I’m sorry! The reason I’m saying this all openly is because I want to normalize the idea of writing your intrusive thoughts on paper (or on screen) until it feels like catharsis or purge or both.
I love all of my cinephile friends who have Letterboxd and use it regularly and post funny things on there. This is me being as real as I can be about my complicated feelings.
Oh, and by the way: I am moving weekly newsletter posts back to Thursdays. I tried Tuesdays for a bit but my little brain treats them like the second Monday of the week. This rhythm feels good again! Hope that’s okay 🙂
It is January 2026 and I am—as per the ancient laws of my people—scrolling through Instagram when I should be writing. I have a coffee getting cold and a soul getting colder, but I am transfixed by The Perfectly Consistent Content Creator. I’ve followed him for years. You know someone like him. He posts consistently. January after January. February after February. March after March. April after April. May after May. June after June. July after July. August after August. September after September. October after October. November after November. December after December. Back to January. A rhythmic, relentless heartbeat of output.
The thing is, I’ve personally taken huge, dramatic internet breaks in the past. Naively, I thought if I stopped watching, the world might pause in sympathy. But no. I log back on and there he is: same high-key lighting, same terrifyingly consistent upload schedule, better than ever before.
Before coming back from my break on Substack, I hadn’t posted on my newsletter in weeks. Months? Let’s not look at the timestamp, it’s rude. I was doing so well. I ran a Perfectly Consistent Newsletter until I suddenly freaked out about the sheer weight of being perceived and decided to quit. Now, trying to restart feels infinitely worse than the initial quitting. To restart is to admit you are just trying to jump back onto a moving treadmill while holding a hot soup.
So this year, as I’m infamously a glutton for punishment, I’ve turned to self-reflection to get to the bottom of my relentless self-sabotage.
Naturally, I flee to Letterboxd because Instagram is making me feel too many "icky" things. I love when I accidentally discover a Perfectly Consistent Letterboxd User who takes this “logging every film you watch” thing to the extreme. They don’t have streaks of just a few days—they have streaks in the hundreds and log every single film they watch. Watching a foreign horror film as background noise while doing your taxes? You better believe it’s getting logged. Hating Dune Part Two so much that you turned it off after 25 minutes? It still gets logged. Didn’t realize it was a David Michôd movie (or that he directed anything ever) until it got to the end credits? Up on that log with all the rest of the films!
These users strike fear into my heart, and not just because they’re clearly capable of committing to something long term whilst I struggle to even hit the gym on a semi-regular basis. It’s more their obsessive nature, their almost psychopathic dedication to logging, that leaves me unsettled. What type of sicko behavior is this, I ask?
In my head, the idea of opening an app to document the fact that I watched a film feels like being asked to write a book report for homework I’ve already finished and handed in. I do it once or twice and then I fall off the wagon.
(Like a drug addict whose drug of choice is breaking patterns.)
james clear lied to me and now I own four unused planners
Last year, I bought a Moleskine. The nice one. The “I’m a serious writer with serious thoughts” one. I seriously believed that if I owned the correct stationery, I would undergo a biological transformation into a person who “journals.” I used three pages. The rest are an empty, ivory-colored taunt. Occasionally, I open it just to confirm that I am still, fundamentally, bad at being a person who uses notebooks. I also snatched myself one in Cannes, and well, we all know how that ended.
When the analog dream died, I built a Notion database. I spent an entire day making it perfect. Color-coded tags! A ten-point rating system for how films made me feel—literally grading my own emotions like I was a proctor for the SATs. I almost cried when I finished because it looked so organized. I thought, “This is it. This is the scaffolding for my new, disciplined life.”
(Narrator: It was not).
I added The Substance, noticed I’d spelled Coralie Fargeat wrong, realized I didn’t know how to fix the “primary property” without breaking the whole damn thing, and closed the tab forever. It’s still there in my bookmarks, unattended next to my British citizenship application (which is still PENDING btw).
I even read Atomic Habits. Twice. I took notes like I was cramming for a medical board exam. Two-minute rule? Check. Habit stacking1? Check. Reward system? Sure, I aggressively prevented myself from listening to my favorite podcasts UNLESS I moved my ass to the gym. I believed in James Clear like he was the Messiah. It lasted maybe six weeks before I was back to my natural rhythm of completely obliterating my entire routine because a new Frostpunk game came out. The If Books Could Kill episode didn’t help either.
One skip is all it took. My rusty carcass didn’t see the inside of that building for four months.
I can write 4000 words on a film but I can't click 'add to diary’
The thing that rots my brain is that I DO do the work. I published over 30 pieces of That Final Scene last year. Thirty! That’s an objective win! We grew the subscribers, honey! We topped the leaderboards! If I were my own life coach, I’d be thrilled, but I am sitting here in a puddle of my own neurosis because I can’t tell anyone how long I can keep this for. There is only “The Great Unknown” followed by “The Great Fuck You Maybe Always Never” in my book.
To the outside world, I must look like a dilettante who only works when the moon is in the right phase of the zodiac. I’ll do absolutely nothing for three weeks—just staring at the wall, wondering if I should become a person who goes through all Fellini’s films chronologically—and then, the lightning hits. I’ll vomit out four essays in five days, fuelled with passion and a mortifying sense of purpose, only to vanish into the ether for another month.
I have a Perfectly Consistent Friend who is the final boss of showing up. She goes to the gym five times a week. She will move actual, high-stakes meetings—including our regular catch ups (*clears throat*)—if they dare to conflict with “Leg Day.” I asked her once, with a genuine curiosity: how do you never miss?
“It helps my anxiety,” she said, as if that explained everything. “Having the routine. Knowing exactly where I’ll be at 7:00 AM.”
I nodded, because that’s what humans do in conversation, but internally I was puzzled. The thing is, I don’t have anxiety. I deal with the other thing. The heavy, velvet-curtain thing. The D word. Which is a completely different flavor of hell and an essay for another time. But it’s fascinating, really—her anxiety forces her into a rigid schedule to keep the floor from falling out, while my D makes me want to do absolutely nothing for eternity. Her brain craves the repetition. It gets a little hit of dopamine every time she ticks a box. My brain sees a box and immediately wants to set it on fire and move to Slovenia.
the research (or why i’m biologically incapable of being a ceo)
I started reading about dopamine because I am desperate for a scientific excuse for why I am like this. It turns out, I was born a high dopamine seeking individual in a world designed for low novelty existence. Low novelty seeking people are like slow-cookers: they prefer consistency, repeat what works for them over and over again, enjoy regimented patterns, are reliable and expectable. Indeed, all boring shit that I have never been capable of on-purpose displaying in my life. I can only wake up my brain by making something new happen or doing something never done-before-exciting-getting caught dimensionally cryptic behavior.
Neither is technically “better,” which is a lie the books tell you so you don’t feel like a total failure. The upside is knowing that there are benefits to being a genetic lottery winner in this sense; had our brains evolved a few generations sooner I would have made an excellent berry scout or mad cow alert tiger spotter. Instead, nature bestowed upon me an adapter brain. I am “explorative” by nature, creative by design, an unapologetic visionary who cannot remember basic life tasks such as putting the dishwasher on unless it’s added to her calendar on Google Drive which belongs to her 9-5 job using a work email address as if she is having an affair with herself.
It should be obvious where this high-arousal wiring leads us in today’s modern world: We don't live in a berry-scouting economy anymore. We live in a "Letterboxd Friday" economy where consistency is currency and respectability requires avoidance of risk-taking at all cost. When you are a Perfectly Consistent User on Letterboxd, your Friday is a dazzling spectacle of pinks and purples that doesn’t really need to say much because you have developed an extensive vocabulary that allows you to explain your entire film-watching personality in lowercase and internet-speak. Your 7/10 review commentary makes sense. You remember the names of the directors of both movies you watched last week. You create ‘boring women doing murder’ lists. You’re good. You’re safe. You know what comes next.
I could never live my life in such predictable patterns. I see myself as a different species entirely—a flamboyant, flighty bird watching a tractor plow a field. I’m fascinated, but I’m also pretty sure the tractor is going to outlive me.
what i don’t say (contempt as a clasped purse)
If I am a flighty bird and they are a tractor, then I have decided—for the sake of my own crumbling ego—that being a tractor is actually a profound moral failing. This is the part I’m not proud of, the part I’d never admit to the Perfectly Consistent People of the world: I’m jealous. I’m contemptuous. And sometimes this jealousy is a flat, unwashed spitefulness that I carry around like a designer bag I can’t afford. I’m back on Letterboxd, staring at those streak freaks with the Patron badges and my first instinct isn’t to admire the stamina. It’s to develop a very specific, very localized contempt for their entire lineage.
Maybe what unnerves me is this: They ooze discipline, and while I’m capable of discipline when coaxed by intense desire, streak upkeep simply does not turn me on. My bi-annual chickenwing streak makes me uncomfortable. The Perfectly Consistent People have more discipline than me so I look down on them. I’m projecting my own fears about what it means to devote oneself entirely toward silly pursuits, however satisfying, onto the most benign strain of Letterboxd behavior there is.
In fact, I get so petty I start telling myself that my refusal to log a film unless I’ve had a tectonic spiritual shift is actually a mark of my superior cinematic pedigree. It’s my intellectual version of "you can’t fire me, I quit!". Like sure, I’ll watch Marty Supreme and my brain will start firing off these sublime, high-velocity critiques about Timothée Chalamet’s frantic, rodent-like performance being the only thing standing between us and total cultural collapse. I’m writing the review in my head! It’s Pulitzer-tier! I am basically Pauline Kael if she had better hair and a Reddit addiction! And then, I bail.
It’s not that I’m above the consistency. It’s that I’m terrified of the consistency because the consistency is a mirror.
The mirror is like seeing yourself in the airport bathroom after a long flight.
The mirror reveals a gap between who I tell myself I am and who I actually am.
The mirror is terrifying because it asks questions I don’t want to answer.
If the Perfectly Consistent People can be consistent AND interesting, what does that say about me? What if I’m not creative and spontaneous? What if I’m not special after all? What if I’m just undisciplined?
The mirror also tells me that consistency is proof of caring.
The Perfectly Consistent People care enough to show up. They care enough to sit in front of that digital blank page until words come out, even if they’re ugly or boring or unengaging, because those words are part of a larger project that means something to them, and so they deserve to be shared with the world.
They’re doing something mundane that I cannot manage, something that allows for all their deliciousnesses to flourish within it: time spent consistently writing reviews, editing Reels, running on treadmills.
So what does that say about what I care about? What does that say about whether or not I care about myself?
I am sorry I am a piece of shit (I’m now marvelling at your hardware)
The shame of that mirror follows me right into another morning scroll of 2026. I’m hovering over my Perfectly Consistent Friend’s Instagram handle—yes, the one whose life is a series of metronomic gym attendance—and it’s an orgy of effortless efficiency. It’s January 15th, the exact date when the rest of us are beginning to smell the rot of our own resolutions, but she is just...continuing.
6:14 AM, a grainy mirror selfie in a room that smells like industrial rubber and silent, unyielding discipline. There’s no "You’ve got this, babes!" or any other cringe motivational quotes. She’s cut and lean and wearing a tiny sports bra that was definitely from Alo. Her skin is that obnoxiously healthy shade of hydrated. She looks at the camera with the flat, bureaucratic gaze of a person who does what she says she’s going to do. She looks entirely accounted for. I’m paralyzed by the idea of even texting her a "How’s your week? Let’s catch up soon?" because I know exactly how her week is: it’s on track.
I feel this compulsive urge to rewire my brain into believing that rather than jealousy or contempt for consistency I should feel nothing but wonder.
And surprisingly…it works. How does her brain not rebel? How does she not wake up and decide that the concept of a “schedule” is a personal insult designed by the patriarchy to keep her from staring at the ceiling for three hours?
My wonder turns into fascination.
Because it’s all so natural to her, she is robbed of the one thing I have in abundance: awe. She’ll never wake up and marvel at her own consistency, because you don’t marvel at your own heart beating. To her, that early morning workout isn’t a victory over the self—it’s just Tuesday, who cares? It is natural and expected when everything inside you works as it should. She’s a masterpiece that thinks she’s a shopping list.
She also doesn’t get the electric, hair-raising hit of awe that I get on the rare days I get to have a spectacular workout, jolted into action by surprise that maybe today will be the day my brain permits me this favor. Just this once please thank you if there is a god above let this be one of those days where I can. Oh please do not hold anything against me! Just let me go to the gym and spend hours obsessing over whether or not to wear a pink sports bra or a blue one. Imagine thinking about nothing other than those two options until finally coming to the conclusion that if you are not wearing pink what even is life?
I am the only one who gets to find her extraordinary because I am the only one who knows the actual, physical cost of the hardware.
the way forward
So my new strategy for this year is to trade the rusty carcass for a magnifying glass. When I look at a Perfectly Consistent Letterboxd User’s profile now, I am training my brain—with the stamina of a 19th century coal miner—to pivot from "bitch how" to "How does this marvellous human nervous system physically execute that?", like observing biological mechanism in a lab rather than anything that could ever apply to self.
But because the universe is a prankster with a very sick sense of humor, choosing awe over jealousy is itself a practice that requires the one thing I don't have: consistency. And as we’ve established over three thousand words of domestic failure, I don't have any! Most days, the reframing works, some days it does not and on those days I think anyone who logs their Letterboxd films immediately after watching anything is a psychopath.
So where does this leave me in the wreckage of January 2026? I am currently restarting this newsletter after months of silence while the world kept turning. I can explain intellectually why brains are wired differently. I understand that some people have brain chemistry suited for routine and consistency, and that others have brain chemistry suited for novelty-seeking chaos. I can parrot these facts:
Neurodivergent people often swing between hyper-fixation and paralysis
Our timelines feel non-linear
We find interest where others do not
Chaos means we will never get bored of our own life, but it also means we constantly drop the ball on things that are important to us
But understanding something intellectually does not make you feel better about it emotionally. The gap between the two is so big it should be called the Chasm of Incessant Existential Suffering. It’s uncomfortable but it’s how it’s supposed to feel.
I know I will likely spend the rest of my life in a state of high-intensity oscillation. I will have the bursts, I will have the silences, and I will have the Saturday mornings where I look at the Perfectly Consistent People with a mixture of profound fascination and a tiny, lingering desire to set their output on fire.
Perhaps the goal isn’t to become the Swiss clock. I happen to be the bird that occasionally crashes into the clock but manages to sing a really beautiful, unhinged song before it flies away. You can hold both things at once: the fact that they are built for the marathon, and the fact that you are built for the sprint and the subsequent siesta. Neither of us is winning; we’re just playing different games on the same glitchy hardware.
one very final important thing
If you, too, are the person whose brain sets fire to routines the moment they get boring, consider yourself in good company. Subscribe for free to join our chaotic community, or support my work with a paid subscription (annual is 20% cheaper) to keep this kind of writing going and get access to exclusive perks ❤️
My only ever successful habit tracker was the one time during lockdown where tracking going to bed early led me down the rabbit hole of developing insomnia (but hey! At least it was consistent!).
Great piece - found myself saying “yes yes yes!” I am curious by nature, get bored fairly easily, start a new hobby every week (literally). I’ve come to accept this part of me - though I still have days I want to slap myself and say “get it together Amanda!” But - curiosity means I can explore more of the world, dip a toe into all sorts of things. I am great at Connections because I know a lot about a little and that’s so cool!
I’d love to commiserate about this more. I have found things that I am very consistent with - working out, drinking water, walking my doggie, watching the traitors, my substack! And other things going poorly - my novel, letterboxed, eating enough protein.
Anyway - thanks for this!!!
As someone who logs everything on LB, from a 27th rewatch of 27 Dresses while filing taxes to the recent Oscar contender I just saw at my local AMC, I want to say - the amount of times I wish I could write 4000 words on a movie and share it with the world, instead of just being able to obsessive log, is astronomically high. One reminds me of vulnerability, the type I wish I practiced more. The other reminds me of precision, which isn’t the same as creativity, IMO, and is cultivated by discipline that many, many days, feels like an excuse for not writing that Substack article I’ve been putting off. Because I already decided it isn’t good. All this to say: Sometimes, the LB user also wishes they were you, too. Thanks so much for writing this piece.