My Life in Seinfeld, Sugar, and Serial Murders

Look, I’m not saying I’m a complicated person, even though I probably totally am, but if you looked at my Netflix history, bottom shelf of my pantry, and conversational references, you might assume I’m either a quirky sitcom side character or someone in desperate need of therapy. My holy trinity? Seinfeld reruns, cereal at all hours, and documentaries about people who definitely should not be walking free.

Yes, it’s an odd mix — but somehow, these three things create the delicate ecosystem of my inner peace. Some people do yoga. I eat Lucky Charms while watching a seven-part series about a guy who wore other people’s skin. We all cope differently, I don’t judge. (yes I do)

1. Seinfeld: A Show About Nothing That Explains Everything

Seinfeld is my spiritual guide. It taught me that talking about absolutely nothing for 22 minutes is a valid way to live — and frankly, that’s been my entire personality ever since.

I used to watch Seinfeld in this big, weirdly fuzzy gray chair that wasn’t quite comfortable but in my dads arms, it was perfect. I was probably 9, I’d just had a bath, my hair was wet and combed, and I’d be curled up like a cinnamon roll while my dad sat behind me brushing my hair in long, careful strokes — his eyes on the TV, his hand most likely on a Miller High Life.

Life was perfect.

This was back in the days of real television — not this modern “press play and skip intro” nonsense. I’m talking about Thursday nights, when NBC ruled the earth and the phrase “Must See TV” actually meant something. Commercials came on and nobody complained — they were just opportunities to run to the kitchen and get pudding or negotiate with your parents about staying up just one more episode. And after Seinfeld, like clockwork, came MASH, which as a kid I barely understood, but somehow it still felt sacred — like staying up for grown-up content, even if half of it was wartime jokes and melancholy saxophone music.

Seinfeld Was a Warm Blanket Made of Snark

There was something so calming about it all — the rhythm of the theme song, the weird bass slaps, the smug but lovable voice of Jerry opening with a stand-up bit that always made you feel like you, too, were in on something ridiculous about modern life. This blog is partly that. Pointing out the strange habits of my teen daughter and her friends, noting the bizarre behavior of people my own age, observing younger and older folk, trying to sort out what the heck they’re doing. All the while knowing I’m as wacked out as everyone else, I just hide it better, under my gold hoops. Letting the world know, all the things that make my eyes twitch.

Every week, you could count on:

George spiraling over nothing.
Elaine being hot, funny, and accidentally mean.
Kramer exploding through the door like a human air horn.
Jerry, floating above it all, judging them and also himself.

And somehow, my dad and I laughed at the same parts — me, a clean, damp-headed little goblin who didn’t fully get the adult jokes, laughing at him laughing. I think that’s part of what bonded us — the kind of laughter where your shoulders drop and you forget the outside world. It’s still true to this day. No matter how many times I watch the episode, I laugh. And I’m fairly certain it’s the ONLY show I laugh out loud to. All that’s missing is my dad.

Seinfeld Taught Me Life Rules (Most of Them Useless, All of Them True)

To this day, so many of my life philosophies come from Seinfeld:

Don’t double dip. It’s like putting your whole mouth in the dip. Unless of course you just make (and eat) the entire bowl of dip. (Guilty if it’s Lipton Onion Soup Mix and sour cream!)
You can’t spare a square. It’s all or nothing. And plys? Give me a break.
Everyone is a little bit George. Deny it all you want. But remember, “It’s not a lie if you believe it”.

And don’t even get me started on how often I’ve muttered “Serenity now!” while in traffic, or refused to date someone solely because “they’re a close talker.” The show rewired my brain. It’s a reflex now.

But here’s what’s wild — for a show that was supposedly “about nothing,” Seinfeld somehow became the blueprint for understanding everything:

Social awkwardness? Masterclass.
Petty revenge? Art form.
Navigating friendships with insane but lovable people? Essential survival skill.

And it felt safe. The world of Seinfeld was filled with neurotic disasters, yes — but it was always reset by next week. Nobody died. Nothing tragic ever happened. It was New York, but in a vacuum — and when you’re a kid trying to make sense of a chaotic world, there’s something so comforting about that.

The characters are terrible people, and I love them for it. George is every anxious thought I’ve ever had. Elaine is who I think I am after one glass of wine. Jerry is the voice of reason who somehow also owns 17 boxes of cereal, and Kramer… well, if I ever found out Kramer had a true crime doc made about him called The Neighbor, I wouldn’t be even remotely surprised.

Honestly, what is Newman if not a prequel villain in a murder doc? He’s got the job, the bitterness, the sweaty panic. Swap out the USPS uniform for a pair of stained overalls and suddenly he’s the subject of “Going Postal: The Dark Side of the Mailroom.”

There’s an entire episode where Kramer adopts a stretch of highway. That’s one Unsolved Mysteries reenactment away from being a crime scene.

2. Cereal: The Most Loyal Relationship I’ve Ever Had

There are people who say, “Cereal is for breakfast.” These people are either lying or have never eaten a bowl of Froot Loops while crying on the kitchen floor at 11 p.m. Cereal is more than food. Cereal is a lifestyle. Cereal is dinner when I give up. Cereal is brunch when I oversleep. Cereal is dessert when I don’t want to do dishes. I am not ashamed.

Cereal doesn’t care when you eat it. Cereal has never judged you. Cereal is there for you after breakups, before job interviews, during existential crises, and sometimes during true crime documentaries where someone is found dead next to a half-eaten bowl of it. Cereal doesn’t ask questions. Cereal shows up.

Everyone has their favorite — mine rotate depending on how close to an existential crisis I am. If I’m eating Froot Loops, I’m vibing, even with the crazy food dyes that I KNOW I shouldn’t consume but I’m going to anyway, well, because I want to, and I’m technically a grown up so I’ll do what I want. If you catch me with Raisin Bran, I’ve either aged ten years overnight or I think fiber will fix my emotional problems.

I love cereal. I love it the way people love their childhood pets or Taylor Swift’s third album. I am loyal, I am passionate, and I am not ashamed. (for whatever reason, I feel it super important to tell you a 2nd time that I am not ashamed.)

Cereal Is a Meal, a Mood, and a Medium

When I was a kid, cereal felt like a treat — that rare moment when your parents stopped pretending they were above sugar and let you have Cookie Crisp, which is literally dessert disguised as breakfast. It’s just tiny chocolate chip cookies. And we all just… accepted that?

As an adult, cereal has evolved into more of an emotional support system. I have cereals for every feeling:

Cheerios: I’m pretending to be healthy today. Granted, mine are served in a mixing bowl with a pound of fruit, probably bananas, strawberries, blueberries or a combination of all that, sprinkled with a few teaspoons of sugar.
Lucky Charms: I gave up and I want to taste childhood with a side of marshmallow regret. I love them. I pick the marshmallows out of the box while looking for something more nutritious to eat, then get mad when I make a bowl and the marshmallows are MIA.
Raisin Bran: I’m trying to convince myself that fiber equals emotional maturity. I don’t hate it. I just don’t eat it fast enough so that it doesn’t go stale, then it’s gross. And a waste of money.
Trix: I want to feel alive, devouring the fruit shapes, in colors I know are bad for me, but that rabbit, with the obscenely long ears, has been in my heart since childhood, when he hooked us up with those most epic color changing spoons! (Can someone buy me one? I feel like I need one, now that I’m 42)

And then there’s Special K, but with the weird shriveled up strawberries, which is the equivalent of texting your ex just to feel something. You know it’s not what you really want, but you’re hoping it will change this time. It won’t. But I’m doing my best, pretending to be healthy.

The Cereal Aisle Is a Psychedelic Wonderland

Walking down the cereal aisle is like stepping into a fever dream designed by a sugar-addled 8-year-old with a marketing degree. Neon boxes, wild fonts, cartoon mascots who are clearly over-caffeinated — it’s like Vegas for breakfast food. Yes, I’m still influenced by all that. I like to think I’m a pretty good eater. Cereal, you’ve got my full attention and I KNOW I’m buying at least 3 boxes of you, so give me all you’ve got!

You’ve got:

A talking tiger who thinks you’re great. And I am, thank you very much!
An old man with a beard selling granola like a forest wizard. I’m not buying it.
A leprechaun who’s constantly running from children. My spirit animal.
And that terrifying Cookie Crisp wolf who seems one missed dose of medication away from snapping. Seriously.
And now, most every cereal has a popular kid show version. Dora? Bluey? We’ve got you. And your purse cuz you know those kids are gonna scream for it!
Let’s not forget the throwbacks, BooBerry, Frankenberry, etc…those things will rope me right back in, because well, I’m nostalgic and have a major case of FOMO.

Cereal advertising is chaotic. These characters are in wars. They’re being chased. They’re gatekeeping magical shapes. And somehow, we all just go with it.

Cereal Science: The Milk-to-Crunch Ratio Crisis

Cereal is also the only food that comes with a built-in ticking clock. You pour the milk and then it’s you vs. sogginess. You’re racing the laws of physics. You have maybe six minutes before your meal turns into a beige swamp of broken promises.

Some cereals give you more time — Grape Nuts, for example, never soften. You could soak them for 3 days and they’d still crunch like aquarium gravel. But others — like Rice Krispies — betray you within seconds. One spoonful of snap-crackle-pop and the next is just mushy sadness.

There’s an art to it. It’s why cereal isn’t just food — it’s a sport.

Milk first? Interesting. That’s exactly the kind of detail they mention 20 minutes into a serial killer documentary.

Cereal and Identity: A Breakfast Horoscope

I fully believe your favorite cereal says something about your soul:

Frosted Flakes? You’re friendly, nostalgic, and way too optimistic about people.
Cocoa Puffs? Chaos energy. No further questions.
Kashi Go Lean? You pay taxes early and secretly enjoy spreadsheets.
Corn Flakes? You may be legally dead.

I once tried to organize my life by arranging my pantry by cereal flavor profile — “chocolate-based,” “fruit-adjacent,” “pretending to be healthy,” and “emotionally fragile.” It helped more than therapy, honestly.

In Conclusion: I’m a Grown Adult, and I Need My Bowl

Cereal isn’t just food. It’s a feeling. It’s comfort in a bowl, even when everything else is a mess. Especially then. If Seinfeld gave me my worldview, cereal gives me the strength to face that worldview with a spoon and a crunch.

And if you’ve never eaten three bowls of Cinnamon Toast Crunch back-to-back while watching a documentary about a guy who dismembered people in the ‘80s, then friend — you haven’t truly lived.

And here’s the thing: Seinfeld validated my cereal obsession. Jerry had a shelf of cereal in his apartment like it was a shrine. Not one box. A whole selection. You could tell what kind of day he was having based on whether he was reaching for Lucky Charms or Special K. That’s cereal-based emotional intelligence. I strive for that level of self-awareness.

Also, why are cereal mascots all slightly unhinged? The Trix Rabbit? One manic episode away from flipping a car. Tony the Tiger? Too motivational — definitely hiding something. Snap, Crackle, and Pop? That’s a true crime trio if I’ve ever heard one. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a dark Netflix doc coming soon: “Snap, Crackle, Pop: The Breakfast Murders.”

3. Serial Killer Documentaries: Comfort TV for Deeply Uncomfortable People

There’s something truly deranged about watching a 10-part series about a man who buried people in his crawlspace… Or maybe falling asleep to the sound of a British narrator solemnly describing how a man dismembered five people in a cul-de-sac while his neighbors “never suspected a thing.”

… while eating cereal in your pajamas. But here we are. I don’t make the rules. My brain finds comfort in chaos.

True crime documentaries are weirdly soothing. You sit there horrified, yes, but also deeply engrossed — as if knowing how the guy bought 37 gallons of bleach is somehow useful knowledge for your 9-to-5 desk job. I’m not a detective, but I could be if given the right trauma and a trench coat.

This is where my final obsession enters the picture: true crime documentaries, especially the kind where they dramatically recreate things with dim lighting and stock actors in hoodies. It’s not just content — it’s a lifestyle. It’s a personality type. It’s a red flag and a weighted blanket, at the same time.

I Don’t Like Serial Killers — I Just Like Knowing Where They Are

Let me be clear: I don’t root for them. I’m not out here making collage art about Ted Bundy like some of the internet. I just… need to know what they did. When. How. Why. And whether they had cereal for breakfast. You know, for science.

Watching these documentaries has taught me that if anyone ever describes you as “quiet, kept to himself,” you’re already halfway into a Netflix special. If you collect anything — stamps, skulls, vintage dolls — you’re toast. If your coworkers say you were “always friendly but a little off,” you better hope your search history is clean.

And yet, I eat this stuff up like it’s Frosted Flakes with heavy-handed narration.

They All Follow the Same Recipe (Pun Intended)

Every serial killer doc has these ingredients:

The Creepy Opening
A woman’s voiceover says, “It was a quiet town… until it wasn’t.” Cue a drone shot of a peaceful suburb and a slow zoom into a single, ominous mailbox.
The Neighbor Interview
“He always mowed his lawn. Never thought he’d be capable of…” insert horrific crime that no lawn mowing can ever excuse.
The Grainy Childhood Photo
There’s always a Polaroid of the killer as a child, usually in overalls, often with a haunted look that says, “I will be a three-part documentary one day.”
The Forensic Expert
Some guy in glasses with “Criminal Pathologist” on the screen, who makes everything sound both terrifying and completely normal:

“Yes, he cut up the bodies, but what’s really interesting is his use of Tupperware.”
The Final Twist That Isn’t Really a Twist
The killer moved towns, changed names, got caught because he Googled himself. Or wrote a Yelp review. Or dropped DNA on a Taco Bell wrapper. Classic.

Because nothing is random in a murder doc, that’s why it’s so comforting. There’s a beginning, middle, and horrifying end. There are answers. There’s a guy in a tie telling you what happened and when and how. It’s control, in the creepiest possible packaging.

Meanwhile, in real life, you’re spiraling because you got left on read. So yeah — let me have my seven-part docuseries about a Canadian cannibal who used Craigslist. At least he followed through on communication.

The Weirdest Part: It’s Better With Cereal

There is no greater psychological disconnect than watching a man confess to stabbing seven people with garden shears… while you casually eat a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios and think, Huh. That’s a wild turn of events.

I have consumed full boxes of cereal in one sitting while binging true crime. Some pairings just work:

Froot Loops while watching The Staircase — colorful, chaotic, maybe too much.
Rice Krispies during Making a Murderer — you hear snap crackle pop and you’re like, “Is that the cereal or the crime scene?”
Life cereal while watching I Am a Killer — the irony is not lost on me.

It’s like your brain is saying, “Don’t worry about the horror of humanity. Have some sweetened grain.” And honestly, it works.

In Conclusion: Murder, Milk, and Must-See TV

I know it sounds insane. A person who watches serial killer documentaries for comfort. Who eats cereal as a coping mechanism. Who still thinks in Seinfeld punchlines. But put them all together, and you don’t just get my personality — you get a full ecosystem.

These three things — a show about nothing, a bowl of something, and documentaries about everything that went horribly wrong — somehow create balance.

So if you ever find me in my sweatpants, spoon in hand, eyes wide while someone onscreen says, “And that’s when they found the heads in the freezer…” — just know: I’m doing great.

Also, why are they all narrated by someone who sounds like they’re doing ASMR but for murder? “And then… he removed the fingernails.” Sir, why are you whispering that while I’m trying to eat my Cap’n Crunch? Have some decency.

These shows always feature the same 3 people:

A neighbor who says “he seemed so normal.”
A cop with a mustache and too much confidence.
A “forensic psychologist” who I’m pretty sure just binge-watches the same shows I do and got certified through an online course.

And yet… I watch every single one.

4. The Unholy Trinity: How They All Weirdly Work Together

You wouldn’t think Seinfeld, cereal, and serial killers would have a lot in common — but stay with me.

Seinfeld: A show about nothing that teaches you everything.
Cereal: Food about nothing that fills you with something.
Serial killer docs: Shows about something that make you feel everything.

It’s the trifecta. A balanced emotional diet. Jerry Seinfeld once said, “People don’t turn down money. It’s what separates us from the animals.” You know what else separates us from the animals? Watching an entire show about how someone lured victims into their home while slurping soggy Frosted Mini-Wheats.

Honestly, I’d pay to see a serial killer doc told in Seinfeld format:

The killer forgets where he parked his car.
George accidentally dates a woman who’s obsessed with Ted Bundy.
Kramer walks into the crime scene and contaminates the evidence with Cool Ranch Dorito dust.

Conclusion: A Cozy Little Psych Profile

Maybe I’m odd. Maybe my dream evening is watching a man named Glenn confess to six crimes while I eat Apple Jacks and laugh at George’s latest breakdown. But I’ve accepted it.

In a world of chaos, these three things give me structure:

Seinfeld gives me laughs.
Cereal gives me carbs.
Serial killers give me… perspective?

As Jerry would say, “What’s the deal with watching murder while eating breakfast?” I don’t know, Jerry. But it’s my deal. And I’m not giving it up.

Gold hoops on, spoon in hand, and one eye on the guy who alphabetizes his Raisin Bran.

Cereal Killers: