Why I Outgrew Adult Animation at 35

I’d like to think of myself as a discerning viewer. These days, it’s becoming increasingly rare for a movie or TV show to earn a five-star rating from me. It’s even harder to find something that fully holds my attention. More and more often, I catch myself checking the time on my phone—or even sneaking in a few replies on social media—while watching a movie or TV show without disturbing anyone.

I admit that my behavior isn’t any different from those moviegoers who frustrated Martin Scorsese enough to make him stop going to theaters altogether. In a recent conversation with film critic Peter Travers, Scorsese shared how he no longer visits cinemas because of the audience. He vented about the disruptive behaviors that audiences engage in, such as making phone calls, buying snacks, and speaking louder than the actors on screen.

And honestly, I get where he’s coming from. But as someone who occasionally pulls out their phone mid-screening, I have to say—often, the story hasn’t moved an inch even after my focus returned to the film. Maybe my attention span has shrunk, like many others’, but part of me also wonders: have films simply become less captivating?

Still, I’m not here to judge the state of film and TV. Instead, I want to reflect on myself. As the title suggests, I’ve come to realize that at 35, I no longer feel the same passion for adult animation. And I know—it’s not that adult animation has changed. It’s that I have.

If there’s any genre that seems immune to mediocrity and boredom, many would say it’s adult animation. As a millennial, my teenage years coincided with its golden age. The Simpsons and South Park were global sensations. With the launch of Adult Swim in 2001, a dedicated cable block for grown-up cartoons, shows like Futurama and Family Guy were resurrected.

So as I left behind Disney films and SpongeBob SquarePants, I eagerly dove into the world of adult animation. How could I resist? It was packed with profanity, violence, even nudity and sexual innuendo—all the things that made me feel like a “cool kid.” But more than that, I was hooked onto the genre’s boundless imagination, sharp, dark humor, and the whirlwind of ideas packed into every frame: parallel universes, pop culture deep-dives, critiques of U.S. elections, or even Chinese censorship. These shows didn’t just entertain—they educated, challenged, and comforted me through some of the roughest years of my life.

Even as I entered adulthood, I remained loyal to the genre. Rick and Morty, Ugly Americans, and BoJack Horseman—they felt tailor-made for 20-somethings like my younger self, who were trying to navigate a chaotic world. These shows gave voice to the unspoken: those who were born into dysfunctional families, those who experienced cultural alienation, and those who faced the looming threat of depression and self-destruction. Through Rick, Morty, BoJack, and Diane, I saw myself: a young adult moving alone from a small town to a big city, battling fear, pain, and confusion. Once again, adult animation was there to catch me when I was falling.

But now, at 35, as I sit down to watch Season 8 of Rick and Morty, I can’t deny it: the show hasn’t changed—but I have. It’s still chaotic, cynical, and satirical. But it no longer blows my mind. In fact, it kind of exhausts me. The story whips through three or four timelines in just 20 minutes, never giving my emotions a chance to settle before zipping off somewhere else. Its satire feels too surface-level. I find myself craving more—something deeper, more emotionally and philosophically grounded.

Feeling a little disheartened, I revisited some of my favorite episodes from the past: Futurama S06E06 (Lethal Inspection), Rick and Morty S03E07 (The Ricklantis Mixup), and BoJack Horseman S06E15 (The View from Halfway Down), just to name a few. And yes—I still love them. But I also know that the awe and emotional punch they once delivered can never be recaptured.

Taking a step back, I realized something strange. The very things I now “complain” about—complex (even experimental) structures, perfunctory mentions of philosophical, political, and social issues, rapid pacing, dense information, surface-level satire, the tightrope between fantasy and reality—these were exactly the things that once thrilled me. They were the reasons I fell in love with adult animation in the first place.

In the new season of Rick and Morty, Beth says to a newly “reborn” Summer, “The best thing about being 17 is that you don’t know anything.” Hearing that, something clicked: maybe my fading passion for adult animation isn’t a loss—it signifies growth. Growing up doesn’t necessarily mean becoming wiser or more rational. Sometimes, it just means leaving behind parts of your former self. Adult animation hasn’t lost its spark. I’m simply no longer the person who needed it the way I once did.

I can’t emphasize enough that what’s changed is me, not the shows. Now in my mid-30s, my view of the world has become more structured and grounded. The fragmented pace, rapid-fire logic barrage, and dense cleverness of adult animation that once excited me now often leave me drained. My attention has shifted toward slower storytelling, deeper emotional arcs, and a search for lasting truth over dazzling novelty or fleeting thrills.

I still watch adult animation, even though my obsession with it has faded. With their steady rhythms and clear emotional throughlines, series like Scavengers Reign and Common Side Effects still move me. This isn’t a goodbye—it’s just a natural divergence. The wit and wildness that once felt like lifelines now feel like distant echoes, fading silhouettes on the platform of memory. They remind me: maturing isn’t a destination—it’s about continually letting go of who we used to be.

Adult animation hasn’t lost its color. It’s just that the girl who once needed its fire has journeyed to different landscapes.

And deep down, I believe the artists behind these shows are also continuously searching, growing, and evolving in life. Maybe one day, after crossing through the fog of time, we’ll find one another again—this time with matching frequencies in some corner of the universe. The shared drive to explore, to express freely, and to seek truth will connect us for eternity.