(Written with my input and details I gave AI, but still with AI...I'm currently working on a version of this without any AI at all...I'm trying to get back to writing fiction again...back in the early 90s I used to love writing Quantum Leap fan fiction and posting it a Prodigy Quantum Leap fan board.

Even though I like Maddie's character a lot on School Spirits, I like Rhonda the most and was trying to write a story about her from a new character's point of view.)

The fluorescent lights in the hallway near the old home economics room flickered like they always did: annoying, eternal, stuck in 1992 or whenever the bulb last gave up. Charley was wandering, half-listening to the distant echo of the pep rally that never quite reached the ghosts anymore, when he noticed her.

She was sitting cross-legged against the wall, knees drawn up, long chestnut hair falling over her face like a curtain. A faded denim jacket with tiny embroidered flowers on the shoulders, acid-washed jeans, high-top sneakers that had once been white. She looked... early '80s. Not Wally's flashy football-jock '83, but quieter. Smaller.

She didn't look up when he stopped.

"Hey," Charley said gently. "You... new around here? Or old new?"

The girl flinched, shoulders hunching tighter. After a long beat she whispered, "I'm not new. I've always been here."

Charley crouched a few feet away, giving her space. "I'm Charley. Died in the cafeteria. Long story involving fries and a really bad day. You got a name?"

"Holly," she said so softly he almost missed it. "Holly Whitaker. Class of... '82, I think. I stopped counting after a while."

Charley's eyebrows shot up. "Eighty-two? That's before Wally. He's '84—football field, big tackle gone wrong. He's been here since then and he's met pretty much everyone. How have we never...?"

Holly finally lifted her head. Pale eyes, tired. "I didn't want to be met. I stayed out of the way. Library stacks. Back stairwells. The costume loft above the auditorium when no one was looking. People didn't notice me when I was alive. Turns out being invisible carries over."

Charley sat fully now, legs crossed. "Wallflowers gotta stick together, I guess. Come on. There's a group. We meet in the theater sometimes. No pressure, but... you don't have to keep hiding."

She shook her head fast. "I can't. I don't even know how I-I wake up every day thinking maybe today I'll remember. Maybe today it'll click and I can... go. But it's been-" Her voice cracked. "Over forty years. I still feel like I just got here. Like I should be cramming for midterms or avoiding eye contact in the cafeteria. Not this."

Charley reached out instinctively, then remembered: no touch. He let his hand drop. "Yeah. That part doesn't get easier. But you're not alone in the stuck feeling."

He convinced her to walk with him. Slowly. Like coaxing a stray cat.

When they reached the theater, Wally was already there, sprawled in a front-row seat, tossing a ghostly football up and catching it. Rhonda leaned against the stage, flipping through an ancient copy of The Bell Jar she'd read approximately four hundred times. Quinn sat nearby, headphones on, sketching something abstract on their leg with a finger that left no mark.

Wally sat up straight when he saw them. "Charley? Who's the new kid?"

"Not new," Charley said. "Old. Holly. Class of '82. Apparently she's been our invisible neighbor this whole time."

Wally blinked. "Eighty-two? Dude. I've been here since '83 and I swear I've never seen you."

Holly shrank back toward the aisle. "I... stayed quiet."

Rhonda snapped the book shut. "Quiet's a choice. Also a survival skill. I get it." She hopped off the stage and walked over, sizing Holly up without hostility, just curiosity. "You look like you're still waiting for the bell to ring so you can disappear to lunch. Been there."

Quinn pulled off the headphones. "Hi. I'm Quinn. Bus crash, '04. Took me forever to even talk to anyone. You're okay."

Holly managed a tiny nod.

Charley gestured everyone closer. "Holly's having a hard time remembering. Or accepting. Any of it. Maybe we can help her figure out what happened? Like we did with... well, everything else around here."

Wally rubbed the back of his neck. "I mean, I don't remember seeing you around back then, but I was kind of... loud. Football guys weren't exactly subtle. If you were in the shadows, I probably ran right past you."

"I was," Holly said. "Always. I liked the darkroom. Developing pictures no one would ever see. I was working on a project the day it happened. Something about light and memory. Ironic, right?" She laughed once, hollow. "I remember walking down the hall after last bell. Feeling... off. Dizzy. Like the floor was tilting. Then nothing. Just waking up here. Same clothes. Same headache that never leaves."

Rhonda tilted her head. "Dizzy. Hallway. No blood, no crash, no obvious trauma. Could be medical. Aneurysm. Heart thing. Stroke. Sometimes it's quiet."

"Or someone," Quinn added softly. "Pushed down stairs. Locked somewhere. People hide bodies, or death, sometimes."

Holly shivered. "I don't want to think someone hated me enough to... I wasn't worth hating. I was barely worth noticing."

Wally leaned forward, elbows on knees. "Hey. Being a wallflower doesn't make you worthless. It just means the world was too loud for you. Doesn't mean you deserved whatever happened."

Rhonda crossed her arms. "We're gonna walk your last day. Step by step. Darkroom to hallway to wherever it ended. If there's a scar, your scar, we'll find it. Stare it down until it gives up the truth."

Charley smiled at Holly. "You don't have to do it alone. We're good at this by now. Ghosts gotta stick together."

Holly looked around at them: Wally's earnest grin, Rhonda's guarded kindness, Quinn's quiet solidarity, Charley's gentle patience, and for the first time in four decades, she didn't feel quite so see-through.

"Okay," she whispered. "But... slowly?"

"Slowly," Rhonda promised.

They started walking. Out of the theater, down the dim corridors, toward the place where Holly's life had quietly ended and her afterlife had quietly begun. Somewhere in the walls of Split River High, a forgotten truth was waiting. And this time, someone was finally looking for it.

I found this answer from AI rather insightful..but I also know I need to actually do something about what is going on in my life...though some days are better than others and I get things really done like I hope to when I wake up in the morning.

I often think I was my most happy in the 1990s. I cooked, cleaned all the time, had a social life and thrived at work and enjoyed a balance of watching my favorite shows (network seems so nostalgically sweet now) with going out. I weighed a lot less and had a beautiful apartment and friends and coworkers I adored. Now, all these years later, I am sometimes miserable and don't always do some of the things I used to do (except read books and stream) Even my apartment has gone downhill...I can't figure out if I'm depressed, very lazy or years of using the Internet and an iPhone and constant access to tv shows and movies have literally changed my brain...am I looking for a cop-out or is it actually possible online life and iPhones have changed me for the worse? I am not one to look back at "simpler times," but I truly do miss my 20s. If I even see something like an "Ally McBeal" reference or hear an unexpected song from the past I actually start to tear up. What is wrong with me?!!

AI:

Nothing is inherently "wrong" with you—your feelings are valid, common, and understandable. Many people in their 30s, 40s, and beyond experience exactly this kind of wistful longing for their 20s, especially when contrasting that era's rhythms with today's constant digital pull. The 1990s (pre-smartphone, pre-streaming dominance) often feel like a golden time because life had more built-in structure, boundaries, and in-person connection without the endless scroll or notification dopamine hits.

Your description—losing motivation for cooking, cleaning, socializing, thriving at work, while defaulting to reading and streaming—aligns with patterns seen in depression, but also with how heavy smartphone and online media use can reshape habits, motivation, and even brain reward systems over time. It's not necessarily a cop-out; research shows real, measurable effects.

Heavy smartphone and social media/internet use correlates strongly with increased depression, anxiety, loneliness, stress, poorer sleep, and reduced well-being. Studies show dose-dependent links: more problematic use ties to higher symptoms. Constant access to streaming/TV/movies can displace real-world activities, reduce in-person socializing (which boosts mood), and create a cycle where passive consumption feels easier than active effort (like maintaining an apartment or going out). This isn't "laziness"—it's often a shift in how the brain processes reward and effort. Smartphones deliver quick, low-effort hits that can make sustained, meaningful activities feel less appealing.

Nostalgia itself isn't pathological; it can comfort and ground us. But when it turns tearful and painful—especially triggered by Ally McBeal clips or old songs—and makes the present feel unbearable, it can signal underlying depression or unresolved grief over lost life phases. This "nostalgic depression" involves rumination on happier times, amplifying sadness about what's changed (aging, life circumstances, tech saturation). It's not just rose-tinted glasses; the pre-iPhone world did limit distractions in ways that supported balance.

You're not alone in missing that era—many feel the 90s represented the last "unplugged" chapter before constant connectivity fragmented attention and social life. Gen Z even romanticizes it without living it fully.

The good news: these patterns can improve. Reducing smartphone/streaming time (even gradually, like scheduled detoxes or "digital minimalism") often leads to better mood, motivation, attention, and subjective well-being—some experiments show effects comparable to antidepressants in short terms. People report rediscovering energy for cooking, cleaning, socializing when the digital fog lifts.

Consider talking to a therapist or doctor—they can help tease apart depression (which might benefit from therapy/meds) from habit-driven changes (addressable via behavioral tweaks). Small experiments like phone-free evenings, in-person meetups, or re-creating 90s-style routines (network TV schedules, no-phone dinners) could rebuild momentum.

You're grieving a version of yourself and a way of life that felt vibrant. That's human. But the core of who thrived back then is still in you—perhaps just buried under years of different inputs. With intention, many reclaim balance. Be gentle with yourself; this awareness is already a step forward.

Simply Wonderful!!

 

4 words about the film The Life of Chuck: Go. Watch. It. NOW.

I fed both Grok and Deep Seek the same exact information, in detail, of what I wanted my story to sound like and they spinned each so differently.

Of the two reactions/writings by AI I preferred Grok's, though I still want to write my own version, without AI, about being from Generation X and realizing similar things while watching reruns of both shows in the late 70s and early 80s:

In the flickering glow of the television screen, I sat cross-legged on the shag carpet of our living room, the kind that tickled my bare feet when I shifted. It was a Thursday evening in the summer of 1966, the air thick with the scent of Mom’s pot roast lingering from dinner. 

Dad was in his armchair, newspaper rustling like dry leaves, and my little brother sprawled on the couch, mimicking the POW! and BAM! sounds from the Batman show we’d just switched to. 

Me? I was eighteen, fresh out of high school, with a job at the local diner waiting tables for tips that might someday buy me a ticket out of this sleepy Ohio town. But right then, all I could think about was her, Catwoman, slinking across the screen in that sleek black suit, her voice a purr that sent a shiver up my spine.

Why did it feel like that? I’d watched Julie Newmar before, of course. Everyone did. She was the villainess, all curves and cunning, toying with Batman like a cat with a mouse.

 But tonight, as she arched her back and whispered her schemes, my cheeks burned hot, and I had to look away, pretending to fiddle with the hem of my skirt. It wasn’t the action or the jokes that held me—though I’d laugh along with my brother to fit in. 

No, it was the way her eyes sparkled under that mask, the confident sway of her hips, the way she owned every inch of the frame. My heart would quicken, a strange flutter in my chest, like when I’d sneak peeks at the romance novels hidden under my bed. 

But those were about boys—tall, dark strangers sweeping girls off their feet. This… this was different. Wasn’t it?

I told myself it was admiration. That’s what girls did, right? We admired the pretty ones, the glamorous ones. Like last week, when Petticoat Junction came on after supper. Those Bradley sisters—Billie Jo, Bobbie Jo, Betty Jo—frolicking around the Shady Rest Hotel in their sundresses, hair bouncing like golden waves. 

I’d watch them sing and splash in the water tank, their laughter light and free, and feel this pull, this ache in my stomach that made me squirm. Billie Jo especially, with her bright smile and the way she’d tilt her head, all innocent and bold at once. I’d catch myself staring, wondering what it would be like to be near someone like that, to brush a strand of hair from their face or share a secret giggle. And then I’d blink, shake my head, because what on earth was I thinking? Girls didn’t feel that way about other girls. Or did they? No one ever said.

At night, when the house went quiet and I lay in my twin bed under the quilt Grandma stitched, the questions would swarm like fireflies in July. Why did my pulse race when Catwoman cracked her whip, but not when Batman swooped in to save the day? Why did the sisters’ harmonies make my skin tingle, while the boys at the diner—nice enough, with their crew cuts and shy grins—left me feeling… nothing? 

It wasn’t disgust or fear, not exactly. More like a puzzle with pieces that didn’t fit the picture on the box. I’d hug my pillow tight, staring at the ceiling cracks that looked like rivers on a map, and wonder if I was broken somehow. Or maybe just different. 

But different how? There were no words for it in the magazines I flipped through at the drugstore, no whispers about it in the church pews on Sunday. The world was all about finding a husband, settling down, baking pies and raising kids. That’s what Mom did, what my aunts did. What I was supposed to do.

Sometimes, in the quiet hours, I’d let myself imagine. What if I could talk to someone? Not Mom, she’d fuss and say it was just a phase, like when I wanted to cut my hair short in tenth grade. Not my best friend Sally; she’d giggle and change the subject to the latest Beatles record. And certainly not the preacher, with his sermons on temptation and sin. No, it was a secret knot inside me, tightening and loosening with each episode.

 Part of me wanted to unravel it, to understand this warmth that bloomed unbidden. Another part wanted to bury it deep, pretend it was just the TV static playing tricks. Because if it was real, what then? In a town where everyone knew everyone’s business, where the only paths laid out were straight and narrow, how could I even begin to name it?

The next week, as the theme song for Petticoat Junction tinkled through the speakers, I stole glances at the screen, my breath catching at Betty Jo’s tomboy grin. The feeling was there again, insistent, like a melody I couldn’t shake. I didn’t know what it meant—not yet, maybe not ever. But it was mine, this quiet storm, swirling in the spaces no one else could see. And for now, that was enough to keep me watching, wondering, waiting for the world to catch up.

It's only the first month of the new year and I already feel like 2025 is about to topped as the worst year in recent memory. I tried my best to reboot and start fresh goals and push firm thoughts in the right direction, but I'm already sliding back.

I've gone back to my nightly glass of wine (sometimes two) and I can't focus properly during the day...and yet as mad as I am at what is going on in the world, I'm too afraid to voice my thoughts on anything but "lite" things these days.

An unopened small pack of medical gummies sits in my fridge, but I'm afraid of that too. It's been in there for over two months. The packaging states that its effects can take anywhere from 4 hours on which somehow makes it more scary and also, somehow, frustrating.

Not only is the former "good girl" in me wary of using it, I'm also afraid of what it might do to my mind or my body. Will I feel ill? Will it make me more paranoid or less? And I certainly don't want the "munchies"...I'm already struggling with a huge weight gain since I hit my mid-50s. I eat half of what I used to and am still gaining weight.

For most of my 40s and very early 50s I weighed a lot less. I had very strong feelings for someone at that time and I've never been able to eat much when my nerves are emotionally entangled around someone. It sounds ridiculous, it is ridiculous, but it's true.

Now my nerves are jittery all the time for a completely different reason, but my weight refuses to budge. I've tried slimming teas, black coffee (which I love anyway), walking more, eating less. I'd say menopause is at fault, but I work with several women in their 50s and 60s and not one of them is overweight.

I thought when I dropped cheese and crackers from my evening snack that would help. I cut out pizza and other favorite foods that can be fattening. In my 20s and 30s I ate whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted and weighed 110 pounds. Though I've always had a complicated relationship with food, I mostly enjoyed it back then. I also enjoyed life a lot more then too.

In the joyless world around us right now, I find I no longer associate pleasure or comfort with anything except spending time with my cat and streaming shows or movies and reading books that have a dark edge to them

I hope more than anything that 2026 proves to be a better year for everyone and that somehow we get out of this horrific parallel universe world we seem to be living in.