I Saw Bryan Johnson's Boner Graph. It Ruined Me.
I'm currently on YouTube Shorts, watching a video by Bryan Johnson.
He's a Silicon Valley parasite VC-bro turned longevity guru. And now, in the video I'm watching, he's telling me not to smoke cigarettes. Apparently, they're bad. Harmful. Each one will cost me 11 minutes of life. The big bad. BAD! Cigarette bad.
So I walk into my bedroom, grab my cigarettes, and head for the trash bin. Bryan knows best. He's rich. He's.. well, he's rich. So he must know stuff: see things the rest of us don't.
Still, as I hold the pack over the bin, a flicker of doubt hits me.
I toss them in anyway.
But the thought lingers:
What if Bryan, the rich YouTube guy, doesn't know anything I don't?
I get wanting to be healthy. Being fit makes existence more bearable. I get it.
But why would you want to live forever? Why is a long life automatically better than a short one?
As the curiosity grows, I click my way to Bryan's YouTube page.
First video I see: 11 plastic products from a third-world sweatshop that will help you live longer.
Thanks, Bryan, I think, as I hover over the links, ready to order shit I don't want.
Then I remember my mission.
Why do I want to live longer?
I close the Amazon tabs and head back to his videos.
Next up: Gender-based marketing for how to live longer as a vagina-haver.
I glance down at my crotch.
Breathe a sigh of relief: no vagina.
I keep scrolling.
After a few more minutes of doomscrolling, I finally find a video that resonates: Bryan Johnson's guide on how to get hard and stay hard.
I'm asking big questions about mortality, and Bryan's giving me boner stats like they're the answer.
I can't help myself: I click.
Bryan pulls up a graph of his "erection cycles" from last night. He tells me he had four erections, totaling "just over three hours." Better than the average 18-year-old, he says.
Impressive, I think, glancing down at myself.
The video ends with Bryan recommending Hollywood slop-therapy. Something about shockwaves.
All I know is: I need to get harder. Longer. Faster.
But I don't know why.
I get erections. They seem fine.
At the same time, Bryan says I could do better.
Maybe my erections aren't good enough?
I try to remember if I woke up with morning wood. Bryan says it's important.
I can't remember. Fuck.
I scribble a note:
"ask md about boner"
I scroll back to Bryan's page.
I need to find my answer.
I need to figure out why I want to live longer and be hard as often as possible.
The more I scroll, the more Bryan looks like a Madame Tussauds wax figure.
Looking like a wax figure must be good for longevity, I think.
I watch a few more of his videos:
How I'm DE-AGING My Penis
I Injected My Joints With 300 Million Stem Cells
I Edited My DNA On A Secret Island (To Live Forever)
The Shocking Truth About Toenail Vibration Therapy
(Ok, I made that last one up.)
The blue light is straining my eyes.
I still don't know why I want to live longer.
Or be hard constantly.
Or look like a wax figure.
All I know is that I think I want those things.
In desperation, I Google:
"Why does Bryan Johnson want to live longer"
First result: a Guardian article titled:
'My ultimate goal? Don't die': Bryan Johnson on his controversial plan to live forever.
Apparently, Bryan does have a reason: He doesn't want to die.
But that's not a reason. That's just a fear.
WHY DO YOU NOT WANT TO DIE, BRYAN JOHNSON?
I stand up and stumble to the bathroom.
I stare into the mirror.
Bags under my eyes.
If I wrinkle my forehead, wrinkles appear.
I glance down.
No erection.
I'm aging.
Bryan says aging is dying.
So I'm dying.
And Bryan says that's a problem.
A big fucking problem.
I picture Bryan at 900 years old, posting erection graphs from inside a Mars survival pod.
His skin stretched tight as a drum.
Nobody likes or comments anymore.
Nobody's left.
Bryan says I should want to live forever.
But what if I'm not supposed to?
What if living forever just means more time scrolling, more time worrying about boners, more time buying plastic junk because a wax man on YouTube told me to?
I imagine myself at 400, eating chia pudding alone in a white box, getting a perfect erection once an hour, on the hour.
Never having sex, though. Too risky. Could die.
I imagine outliving everyone I ever cared about.
I imagine never being done.
Never having a reason to stop.
I walk back to the trash bin.
The pack's half-crushed, sitting on a banana peel.
Marlboro Reds. Soft pack.
(Soft pack looks cooler. It says I don't care if my cigarettes get crushed. I'm not addicted: I'm a competent risk-taker. A leader.)
I dig for one that isn't crushed.
Eleven minutes less sounds pretty good.
Actually, it sounds perfect.