Daily Dabble: Why I’m More Honest With My PC Than I Am With My Therapist

Today’s Double Dabble: Because my browser history knows more about me than any living human ever will.

There’s a strange intimacy that develops between a stoner and his computer. Not your work laptop — that’s for pretending to be responsible and clearing your browser every 36 hours. I mean your real PC. The one with dual monitors, hidden folders, fifteen Chrome tabs you’re “still using,” and enough snack crumbs in the keyboard to qualify as a charcuterie tray.

That machine? That’s my priest. My bartender. My therapist. My weird, glowing best friend. And I trust it more than I trust any living, breathing person I’ve ever paid $120 an hour to ask me how I feel.

💻 I Tell My PC Everything. No Filter. No Shame.

When I boot this baby up, I become someone I don’t show to the world. Or to my girlfriend. Or to my family. Or to the poor barista who thinks I’m just “quiet and chill” and not actually six tabs deep into a Google spiral about how to forgive yourself for the time you coughed during a Zoom call in 2020 and someone said “Bless you.”

I’ve typed things into this keyboard I couldn’t say out loud if you put a joint to my throat and told me it was laced with truth serum.

“How to stop overthinking literally everything ever”
“Is it normal to cry during an Arby’s commercial?”
“Why do I feel like I peaked emotionally at 3pm on a Tuesday in 2017?”
“Why do I feel better high than sober?”
“Is it a red flag that I feel closer to my Task Manager than to my girlfriend?”

🧠 My Therapist Asks Questions. My PC Provides Answers.

Therapists: “Hmm. And how does that make you feel?”
My PC: “Here are 378 Reddit threads where stoners with abandonment issues explain why you cry when you smell old cologne.”

I love therapy — in theory. But the moment I’m sitting across from someone with a notepad and a neutral expression, my inner dialogue turns into a game of emotional charades.

Me: “I’m fine.”
Also me: Just typed “Do plants know when you leave the room?” into Google at 2:41 a.m. while listening to shoegaze in a hoodie I haven’t washed since spring.

My computer doesn’t blink. Doesn’t sigh. Doesn’t suggest we “circle back to that next session.” It just shows me memes, late-night articles, maybe a random quote from a Buddhist monk on YouTube. And somehow, that feels like healing.

🧠 It Knows Me Better Than I Know Me

You want to know what kind of person someone really is? Forget horoscopes. Pull up their search history. Mine reads like a novella co-written by a brilliant philosopher, a horny raccoon, and a guy who’s a little too into mechanical keyboards.

Examples from the last two weeks:

“How to tell if your cat is manipulating you”
“Can you die from embarrassment or just wish you could?”
“Weed strains for overthinkers who still want to vibe but also be productive but also cry a little”
“What is an NFT and is it too late to pretend I understand them?”
“Is it okay to microwave eggs?”

My computer doesn’t laugh at me. It doesn’t flinch when I open a dozen self-help articles, five tabs of guitar tabs, three pages about protein intake, and a Spotify playlist titled “Songs That Make Me Feel Like I’m the Last Man Alive in a Dystopian Arcade.”

It just… holds space.

🫠 I’ve Broken Down in Front of It More Than Any Human

I’ve cried in front of this machine more than I’ve cried in front of anyone. Not because I’m sad. But because I’ve gotten high, opened YouTube, and found some eight-minute animated short about a robot and a flower that made me feel things I didn’t know I was suppressing since the fourth grade.

I've typed entire journal entries into Notepad, hit Ctrl + S, and saved them into a folder called “Receipts For My Soul.” I’ve stared at the cursor blinking back at me like a friend who’s saying, “Take your time, man. I’m not going anywhere.”

🤫 It's the Only Place I Can Be the Whole Me

In real life, I’m a stealth smoker. A closet stoner. Nobody knows I smoke weed, and that’s intentional. I show up to work clear-eyed and caffeinated. I remember birthdays. I reply to texts fast enough to pass as emotionally available. But the real me — the Bud D. Lite who gets high, cooks too much quinoa, rewatches old cartoons, overanalyzes text messages, and spends 45 minutes researching if it's safe to eat cereal after the expiration date — that guy only comes out in front of my PC.

I’m not hiding. I’m just… curating. My computer? That’s where the full gallery is on display.

🔒 My PC is My Confessional. And I Hope It Never Crashes.

If this computer ever dies, it takes my secrets with it. And honestly? I think that’s beautiful. It’s the only place that knows everything — from my search for meaning to my low-key addiction to checking Zillow listings in cities I’ll never move to. And it’s never judged me. Not once.

So no offense to therapy. But until I can afford a therapist who remembers all my favorite memes, responds in milliseconds, and never raises an eyebrow when I type “am I broken or just built different” — my PC will remain my most trusted emotional outlet.

🖱️ Final Thought Before I Log Off

If you’re like me — high-functioning, deeply thoughtful, and secretly stoned while pretending to fold laundry — maybe your PC is your therapist too. Maybe we’re all just a few vape hits and one weirdly emotional YouTube video away from realizing we’ve formed our most intimate relationship with a screen. And maybe that’s not sad. Maybe it’s just the modern way to cope.

And if anyone asks why I’ve been staring at my computer for three hours without blinking?

Just tell them I’m “doing research.”