My mind has found so much respite in reading a good book. A good fiction book, that is. I hate men screaming at me on how to live my life. That's a nonfiction self-help book. A good fiction book (if the writer has suffered and is good at describing human nature) cures you so deeply and so thoroughly that the boring platitudes of an Atomic Habits can't touch it. Don't get me wrong. The latter is great reference material for the gooner cucks of our century who need to be rescued from the black pit of the bottom. But if you're not that and only have mid-level and largely doing well (or on the trajectory to do well), it's a John Steinbeck or a James Baldwin who will do more more for you than a James Clear (and I'm saying this with so much respect for Clear btw). I find that self-help nonfiction is good for a certain Type-A individual who follows orders and fits neatly into an institution. But its not good for a low status, neurotic rebel. What will save him is the fucking story. The story will tell him he's not alone. It will remind him that other cerebral fucks before him have confronted the complexity of life and then through engaging with it have relaxed their sphincter in a big way. Read stories.