The rabbit hole has Wi-Fi

I never thought I'd become one of those people.

You know exactly who I'm talking about. The ones who begin every sentence with, "I'm just asking questions," and somehow end up explaining secret societies, bloodlines and government cover-ups before you've even finished your morning coffee.

Yet somehow ... here I am.

The thing nobody tells you about rabbit holes is they don't start with the moon landing. They start with one innocent Google search at 11:30 p.m. Suddenly, it's 3:17 a.m., you've somehow learned about Rh-negative bloodlines, watched three interviews with people who may or may not have worked at Area 51, and you're seriously considering whether your phone is listening to you. (Let's be honest, that one barely qualifies as a conspiracy theory anymore). 

It didn't happen overnight. I didn't wake up one morning wearing a tinfoil hat and refusing to make eye contact with airplanes. It started innocently enough.

I have an Rh-negative blood type. Perfectly ordinary according to science. But if you've ever wandered into certain corners of the internet, you'll quickly discover that, apparently, I'm either descended from ancient royalty, extraterrestrials or some mysterious bloodline hidden from humanity for thousands of years.

Do I believe all of that?

Well ... let's just say it was enough to make me keep reading.

That's how it starts.

Next thing you know, you're watching a documentary about the Mandela Effect. Was it Berenstain Bears or Berenstein Bears? Did the Fruit of the Loom logo have a cornucopia? 

My rational brain says memories are unreliable.

The other half of my brain whispers, "Or ... hear me out ... maybe someone's seeing how much reality they can rewrite before we notice."

See? This is exactly what I'm talking about.

Then there's the moon landing. Do I know we landed on the moon? Probably. Do I also occasionally watch a two-hour documentary where someone circles blurry pixels and insists it's all a Hollywood production?

Absolutely.

My YouTube algorithm has completely given up on me.

It knows exactly who I am now.

"Oh, you watched one video about ancient civilizations? Here's 12 more about the Anunnaki. Oh, you're interested in biblical history? Let's discuss the Nephilim. Finished that? Great. Here's a six-part series about interdimensional beings."

And don't even get me started on Gaia.

That streaming subscription has become my version of comfort television. Some people unwind with sitcoms. I unwind by watching documentaries exploring UFOs, consciousness, ancient civilizations, demons and every mystery history may have left behind.

Netflix asks, "Are you still watching?" Gaia asks, "Have you considered that humanity's origins may be far stranger than you imagined?" Apparently, my answer to both is, "Yes ... yes, I have."

Because here's one hill I'm perfectly comfortable standing on: I don't believe we're alone in this universe.

The idea that our tiny blue planet is the only place with intelligent life to ever exist in an unimaginably vast cosmos seems far less believable to me than the possibility that we're simply one small piece of a much bigger picture.

Whether those visitors are little green men, interdimensional beings or something we can't even comprehend, I have no idea.

But I enjoy asking the questions. Maybe that's what this is really about. Curiosity.

Now, before my editor starts getting nervous, I'm not suggesting we abandon science or evidence. Extraordinary claims deserve extraordinary proof, and healthy skepticism cuts both ways. Besides, let's not forget that my first celebrity crush was Bill Nye the Science Guy. 

I grew up trusting a man in a bow tie to explain the universe with baking soda, balloons and infectious enthusiasm. Somewhere along the way, that same curiosity evolved from "How do volcanoes erupt?" to "What exactly is going on in Area 51?" I still love science. I also happen to enjoy exploring the questions science hasn't answered yet.

I think life is more interesting when we're willing to admit we don't have all the answers.

So yes, I may spend my evenings watching documentaries about ancient astronauts before falling asleep to a podcast about mysterious civilizations.

I may occasionally wonder whether history is stranger than we realize. And yes, if someone starts talking about UFOs at a barbecue, there's a very good chance I'll pull up a chair.

Do I officially qualify as a conspiracy theorist?

Maybe.

Or maybe I'm just an incurably curious millennial with Wi-Fi, too many streaming subscriptions and absolutely no self-control when someone says, "What if everything we've been taught is wrong?"