So much of our culture is about striving toward an impossible standard of self-improvement. So much of our living demands that we chase down closure, elide or attempt to erase the parts of ourselves that feel and fear the presence of the void. The best art is a panacea against the interminable anxiety this myth of easy self-betterment engenders: it gives us permission to be vulnerable and fucked up and afraid and imperfect, to empathize and push past ourselves. What Catfish does — accidentally, on purpose, or both — is offer us a wonderful, imperfect description of contemporary loneliness, a new angle from which to see ourselves and our mistakes. What we can learn from this show, it turns out, is that while we’ll always find strange, new ways to be lonely, we’re never really alone.