There’s a comforting little lie we tell ourselves: you get what you deserve.

Work hard, good things happen. Be kind, kindness returns. Treat people well, the universe keeps score and pays you back with interest.

It’s a lovely theory.

It’s also utter nonsense.

Here’s the test. Think of the best person you know. Now ask yourself whether life has been proportionally generous to them.

Probably not.

Good people get cancer. Good people get cheated on. Good people work themselves to the bone and watch lazy chancers stroll past them up the ladder.

If the universe were a vending machine where you put kindness in and got fortune out, none of that would happen.

Yet it happens every single day.

Let me tell you how I learned this.

I once dated a woman exclusively. She’d pursued me intensely, so I did the decent thing. Turned down other women who showed interest. Didn’t think it was fair to keep my options open while she was all in.

Very noble of me. Very principled.

She ended it over a text message. Said she was moving to a new city, wasn’t ready for a relationship. Didn’t even wait for my reply. Just “goodbye and good luck.”

That’s when I discovered something delightful about human behaviour: most people date multiple people at once. They keep their options open as a matter of course. Phenomenal concept.

I’d been playing chess by gentleman’s rules in a game everyone else was treating as poker.

So where exactly was my reward for doing the right thing?

I’ll save you the search. There wasn’t one.

This is the part nobody wants to admit. Conscience is expensive. It costs you opportunities, options, and quite often, your dignity.

The person who can lie, cheat, and sleep soundly has a massive competitive advantage over the person who lies awake replaying whether they were fair to everyone.

Voltaire wrote a whole book mocking this idea. Candide. The hero keeps insisting everything happens for the best in the best of all possible worlds, while getting flogged, robbed, and shipwrecked on every page.

The joke is that the philosophy never survives contact with reality.

Bad things don’t check your moral record first. The thief doesn’t audit your charitable giving before he robs you. The illness doesn’t review your kindness history before it metastasizes.

The rain, as the old line goes, falls on the just and the unjust alike.

The rain doesn’t care.

So why bother being good at all?

Here’s my honest answer, and it’s not a noble one.

I can’t do bad things because I literally cannot live with myself afterward. Can’t sleep. Can’t look in the mirror. It’s not strategy. It’s not karma farming.

I’m not being decent because I expect a payout. I’m being decent because the alternative makes me physically ill.

That’s the uncomfortable truth about morality. The good people aren’t doing it for the reward. They’re doing it because their conscience won’t let them do otherwise.

Which means goodness isn’t an investment. It’s a personality defect that happens to benefit everyone around you.

But there’s a cost I didn’t see coming.

After enough betrayals, you stop trusting people. You start expecting the knife. You read every kind gesture as a setup.

Yet here’s where it gets confusing. I still see the good in people. I still believe most of them are decent.

So I’m stuck in this permanent tension. Trust issues on one side, faith in humanity on the other. Balancing the two is like trying to stand on a seesaw.

The cruel irony is that the people who think hardest about being good tend to get the worst hands to play. Almost like it’s another setup. A cruel, cosmic joke with no punchline.

Meanwhile the people who never question themselves sleep like babies.

So do we get what we deserve?

No. We get what randomness, other people’s choices, and sheer luck hand us.

The good news, if you can call it that, is this: your character isn’t measured by what happens to you. It’s measured by what you do regardless.

A thief stealing from you says something about the thief. It says nothing about your worth.

Bad luck isn’t evidence of bad character.

Sometimes a decent person just crosses paths with a dishonest one.

That’s not justice. That’s not karma. That’s just Tuesday.

And the rain keeps falling on everyone.

Stay curious, stay skeptical.

Srini

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I came to France a week ago.

The decision was not planned. The decision was made at approximately 11 pm on a Tuesday when I realized I could not look at my apartment, my phone, my colleagues, my city, or my own face for one more day. I needed to disappear. France seemed sufficiently far and sufficiently expensive to qualify as disappearing.

I had one mission besides escaping: test the theory that French people are rude.

Everyone says this. Every travel blog. Every American on Reddit. Every coworker who has been to Paris once for a weekend and now considers themselves an expert on European cultural anthropology.

“French people are so rude,” they say with the absolute certainty of someone who has done extensive research consisting of one negative interaction with a waiter who was probably just tired.

I decided to investigate properly. Scientific method. Real data. Multiple test cases.

My first test subject was my Airbnb host, Solène. Lovely woman. Spoke perfect English. Lives in the building. I checked in normally, said thank you, complimented her apartment. She smiled politely.

Boring. No data. Time to escalate.

I texted her at 8 am asking how to turn on the stove. She came up immediately and showed me. I texted her at 11 am asking how to use the washing machine. She came up immediately and showed me. I texted her at 2 pm asking how to open the window. The window has a regular handle. The window opens like every window in human history.

She came up. She showed me. She smiled.

I was running out of basic appliances to fail at. So I started asking her for restaurant recommendations. Then I asked her opinion on the recommendations. Then I asked her to clarify her opinion on the recommendations. Then I texted her at midnight to ask if she still stood by her recommendations from 12 hours earlier.

She responded: “Of course! I hope you enjoy your dinner tomorrow. Let me know if you need anything else!”

Anything else. ANYTHING ELSE. I had already used “anything else.” I had nothing left to ask. The woman was unbreakable.

Next test subject: the waitress at a small café near my apartment. Her name was Margaux. Probably twenty five, definitely overworked, clearly running on espresso and pure willpower.

I ordered a cappuccino. Then I changed it. Then I changed it again. Then I asked if they had oat milk. Then I asked if they had a different oat milk. Then I asked if she could describe the difference between the two oat milks they did not have.

She laughed. She actually laughed. She said in perfect English, “I can describe them but I will be making both descriptions up. Which one would you like?”

This was not rudeness. This was charm. This was wit. This was France refusing to play its assigned role in the international rudeness ranking.

I went to the Louvre next. The worst stories supposedly come from there. Tourist hellscape. Snobby staff. Endless crowds.

I asked a security guard, a man named Romain who looked like he had stopped finding joy in art approximately a decade ago, where the Mona Lisa was.

He told me.

I came back 10 minutes later and asked again.

He told me again.

I came back a third time, this time from a different angle, pretending I had never seen him, and asked where the Mona Lisa was.

He recognized me. He smiled. He walked me there personally. He pointed it out from across the gallery. He said, “There she is, monsieur. Same place as before. She has not moved.”

He was making a joke. With me. About my obvious failure to navigate a building.

A French museum security guard was being warm and funny while I tried to be annoying. The system was broken. The reputation was wrong.

I went to a boulangerie and ordered a traditional baguette in my worst possible French. The kind of French that sounds like a kidnap victim trying to communicate through duct tape. The kind of French that should legally be considered an attack on the language.

The woman behind the counter, an older lady named Florence, listened patiently. She did not correct me. She did not switch to English. She did not roll her eyes.

She just said, very slowly, “You would like a traditional baguette. Yes?”

I said yes.

She gave me two. “On the house,” she said, “for trying.”

For trying. She gave me a free baguette for butchering her language. This is not how rudeness works. This is the opposite of how rudeness works.

The days continued like this. I asked a stranger for directions three times in 20 minutes. He kept giving them to me. I returned a coffee that I had already drunk half of. The waiter made me a new one without asking why. I asked a museum docent 90 questions about a single painting. She answered every single one, then offered me her business card in case I had more questions later.

I came to France expecting rudeness and what I got was unrelenting, almost suspicious, kindness.

Then today, on my last day in Paris, I finally encountered the rude person I had been searching for the entire trip.

He was an American tourist at a café, yelling at a waiter for not bringing his coffee fast enough. Demanding to speak to a manager. Threatening to leave a bad review on Google as if Google reviews are a credible weapon in international diplomacy.

The waiter handled it with the patience of a saint.

The tourist left without tipping.

The waiter looked at me, shrugged, and said in English, “Some people, eh?”

I nodded.

I tipped him double.

The French are not rude.

The French are very, very polite to almost everyone.

It just turns out that “almost everyone” does not include the specific type of tourist who arrives in France already convinced the French will be rude to them and then behaves in a way that makes them rude to that one particular person and then goes home and tells everyone that French people are rude.

The reputation is not earned. The reputation is manufactured. By the exact people who created the conditions that produced it.

I have now extended my vacation. I’m staying another two weeks. I am going all over France to annoy the shit out of everyone.

I have not yet annoyed anyone enough to break them.

I refuse to give up.

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Here’s the thing about optimism: it’s a trap.

Optimism says, “This will be great!” Optimism says, “I’m going to make the best lentil pasta ever.” Optimism says, “Watch YouTube, follow the recipe, trust the process.”

Then you make the lentil pasta and it’s just... meh.

The gap between “This will be incredible” and “It’s actually mediocre” is where disappointment lives.

I used to live in that gap. Constantly.

Then I learned Murphy’s Law the hard way. Whatever can go wrong will go wrong. Not as some pessimistic philosophy. As literal fact in my own life.

Dates promised only to evaporate. Finance situations exploding out of nowhere. Projects that seemed doomed.

I’d see the pattern repeat. So I made a choice: Stop expecting things to go well. Prepare for the worst. Hope for the best.

It’s a different strategy than optimism.

Turns out, it works better.

I had a project at work I genuinely expected to fail. Multiple moving parts. Tight timeline. Every variable screaming disaster.

So I prepared like I was defusing a bomb. Mapped out every worst-case scenario. Had contingencies for the contingencies. Answers prepared before the questions were even asked.

It went fine.

Not perfect. Had its own challenges. But because I’d already braced for catastrophe, the actual problems felt manageable.

I met someone spontaneously. Zero expectation. No fantasy, no narrative, no imagined future together.

It worked like a charm.

Watched Dexter Resurrection expecting it to be the standard reboot garbage. You know, the thing where they ruin your favorite show 10 years later.

It was actually good. Like old Dexter. The one I grew up with.

The feeling when that happened? It’s something else entirely.

Can’t explain it properly. Not quite joy. Not exactly relief. Something between pleasant surprise and grateful astonishment.

This is where the irony kicks in: expecting things to be bad is actually the most optimistic thing you can do.

Because if you expect disaster and get anything less, you’ve genuinely won.

The gap between expectation and reality isn’t disappointment anymore. It’s delight.

But there’s a cost. As always.

The real cost isn’t in the strategy itself. It’s in what happens to desire.

I don’t feel lucky anymore. Not really. Because I’ve had to stop desiring things in the first place.

Can’t want the lentil pasta to be amazing if you want to protect yourself from disappointment. Can’t hope for the date to work out. Can’t let yourself get excited about the project succeeding.

You have to preemptively kill your own optimism.

It’s self-defense disguised as wisdom.

The optimist walks around heartbroken constantly. High expectations, constant letdowns. Their life is a series of disappointments punctuated by brief moments of satisfaction.

The pessimist walks around untouchable. Low expectations, occasional wins, constant small victories.

But the thing the pessimist doesn’t tell you is: you stop feeling lucky because you stop feeling anything at all.

You become so good at not wanting things that you forget what wanting feels like.

You prepare so thoroughly for failure that when success arrives, you don’t know how to celebrate it. You just nod and move to the next problem.

That’s the real trap.

Not optimism or pessimism. The trap is thinking one of them is the answer.

Because both strategies leave you hollow. The optimist is hollow from disappointment. The pessimist is hollow from self-protection.

The real irony?

The pessimist thinks he’s being smart. Thinks he’s won the game.

But he’s just playing not to lose instead of playing to win.

The lentil pasta was meh. But at least the optimist got to feel disappointed. Got to feel the gap between hope and reality.

The pessimist? He expected it to be meh, and when it was meh, he felt nothing.

That’s the seduction of pessimism. It feels like control.

Until you realize you’re not controlling disappointment. You’re controlling yourself out of ever being truly happy.

And that’s a different kind of disaster entirely.

Stay curious, stay skeptical.

Srini

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You ever notice your brain has one job it takes very seriously?

Finding the next thing to worry about.

Not solving problems. Not resting after solving problems. Just finding new ones.

It’s like a bloody algorithm. Problem solved? Great. Next problem loading... 3, 2, 1... New worry activated.

Here’s how it goes for me:

Work crisis. Proper panic mode. Everything’s on fire. Fix it through sheer force of will and caffeine.

Then immediately: financial crisis. Money’s not enough. Will never be enough.

Then back to work crisis. Then realize I’ve got no time to date. Then no time for cooking. No time to read a book. No time for theatre.

Time is never enough. Always playing catch-up.

And round we go.

You know what’s mental? Yesterday afternoon I finally solved the biggest work crisis I’d had in a month. Proper month-long panic attack.

For a moment, I had this conscious realization: things often work out in the end.

There’s that saying, isn’t there? If you worried about something that worked out, you wasted your time worrying. If you worried about something that didn’t work out, worrying didn’t help anyway.

So either way, what’s the point?

I felt relaxed. Actually relaxed. For the entire evening and all of today.

Not because I’d achieved enlightenment. Because I was too exhausted to panic. Too numb.

That’s the secret, by the way. The only time your mind shuts up is when you’re too tired to operate it.

But even then, even in that exhausted peace, my mind kept trying.

“How long will my current life last?” “This could all end any moment.” “Nothing lasts.”

The thing is, I’m right. I see the pattern everywhere. Colleagues. Friends. People I date.

Nothing ever lasts.

Which is either Buddhist wisdom or catastrophic thinking, depending on who you ask.

The Buddhists would say I’ve stumbled onto impermanence. Everything changes. Nothing is permanent. This is supposed to be liberating.

The therapists would say I’ve got cherophobia. Fear of happiness. Fear of good things because they might end.

Both groups agree I should probably relax.

Both groups can fuck off, frankly.

Because here’s the pattern: Your mind is trained to find problems. It’s not a bug. It’s a feature.

Back when we were worried about being eaten by tigers, this was useful. Constant vigilance kept you alive.

Now? Now we’re not being chased by tigers. We’re being chased by emails, deadlines, phone calls, bills, loneliness, time scarcity, existential dread about impermanence.

Your brain hasn’t updated its software. It’s still running Tiger Alert 1.0.

But there are no tigers. Just an endless queue of things that might go wrong.

Your brain, bless it, is determined to work through that queue. One worry at a time. Forever.

I asked myself why my mind does this. Why it can’t just... stop.

The honest answer? It’s trained this way. I’ve trained it this way.

Constant panic mode. Constant vigilance. Constant preparation for the next crisis.

It’s exhausting.

You know what the only relief is? Being too tired to worry.

That’s where I am right now. Too exhausted to find the next problem. Too tired to catastrophize.

I’ll probably rest for a bit. Then I’ll get worried again.

Because that’s what we do, isn’t it?

We solve the problem. We breathe for a moment. Then we find the next thing to panic about.

Money will never be enough, no matter what I do. Work will always have another crisis. Time will always be scarce. Nothing will last.

My brain will keep running this program until I’m dead.

The Stoics would tell me to focus on what I can control. The Buddhists would tell me to embrace impermanence. The therapists would tell me to practice mindfulness.

All of them are right.

None of them can shut my brain up.

So here’s where I’ve landed: The mind finds problems. That’s what it does. It’s not going to stop.

The trick isn’t to make it stop. The trick is to get so bloody tired that you can’t be bothered to listen to it.

Not enlightenment. Just exhaustion.

It’s not the answer you wanted. But it’s the honest one.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some problems to not think about until I’ve had a nap.

Scratch that. Even my naps come with nightmares.

Stay curious, stay skeptical.

Srini

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You ever notice how the universe has impeccable timing?

Not good timing. Just impeccable.

Like it waits for you to get comfortable, to tell people the good news, to mentally spend the money or plan the future or delete the dating apps.

And then it goes, “Oh, were you attached to that outcome? My mistake.”

Here’s the pattern: The more certain you are about something that hasn’t happened yet, the more spectacular the failure when it doesn’t.

It’s not superstition. It’s not jinxing. It’s Murphy’s Law wearing a comedy mask.

I learned this with a woman named Anna.

Met her and thought, “Right, this is it. Found her.” Never met anyone like her. Told my mates. Told my family. Stopped responding to other women. Deleted the apps.

Felt like the protagonist in my own romantic comedy, didn’t I? Very sure of myself.

Then she moved to a different country for work.

Just like that.

And I sat there thinking, “When did I become the idiot who celebrates at halftime?”

The embarrassment wasn’t just the heartbreak. I’ve been heartbroken before. The embarrassment was that I thought I was above this. Thought pain couldn’t touch me anymore. Thought I’d evolved past vulnerability.

Wrong on all counts.

The Stoics had this thing about not treating future events as if they’ve already happened. Marcus Aurelius wrote about it. Epictetus banged on about it. They were basically ancient philosophers going, “Mate, don’t count your chickens.”

But we never listen, do we?

Because hope feels better than caution. Celebration feels better than waiting. Telling people feels better than keeping your mouth shut.

And there’s the rub.

The exact moment you declare victory is when the universe says, “Hold my beer.”

I’ve got a friend who celebrated landing big money. Proper celebration. Told everyone. Started planning what he’d do with it. New car. Holiday. The works.

Deal fell through two weeks later.

Investor got cold feet. Funding dried up. Something about market conditions. Doesn’t matter what the reason was.

What matters is he’d already spent it in his head. Already told people. Already acted like it was done.

Now he had to do that walk of shame where you backtrack on your own hype.

You know that walk? Course you do. We’ve all done it.

The pattern is this: humans are terrible at probability. We treat “likely” as “certain.” We treat “going well” as “already done.”

And the gap between those two states is where humiliation lives.

After Anna, I made a rule: Nothing is real until it’s signed, sealed, and delivered. Don’t tell people. Don’t celebrate. Don’t delete the apps. Don’t act like it’s done until it’s actually done.

Sounds cynical, doesn’t it?

But it’s not cynicism. It’s just pattern recognition. It’s learning from experience. It’s acknowledging that the universe doesn’t care about your plans.

Murphy’s Law isn’t about negativity. It’s about probability. If something can go wrong at the worst possible moment, oh, it will. Not because the universe hates you. Just because timing is a mathematical certainty when you’re dealing with multiple variables.

You celebrate early, you’ve added a variable. The variable is your own certainty. And certainty is the enemy of readiness.

The people who seem to “jinx” things aren’t actually jinxing them. They’re just making themselves vulnerable to disappointment by treating hope as fact.

Hope is lovely. Hope is necessary. But hope dressed up as certainty is just asking to be humiliated.

So what’s the answer?

Do the work. Keep your mouth shut. Wait for the signature. Wait for the delivery. Wait for the actual outcome.

And then, only then, celebrate.

Not because you’re superstitious. Not because you believe in jinxing. But because you understand probability, you’ve learned from experience, and you’d rather look like a cautious bastard than a premature idiot.

The universe has a sense of humour.

DO NOT give it material.

Stay curious, stay skeptical.

Srini

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Ever find yourself reading Camus at 2 am, nodding along to his whole “life is absurd” thing, feeling intellectually superior about accepting the meaninglessness of existence?

And then the next morning you’re googling “what is my purpose” like some desperate bastard on a vision quest?

Welcome to the philosophical equivalent of standing in the doorway.

Not in, not out. Just blocking traffic.

You know what the pattern is?

We treat meaning like it’s binary. Either life has inherent cosmic significance or it’s all pointless chaos. Either there’s a grand design or we’re just atoms bumping into each other until we stop.

Pick a side, right?

Wrong.

Because that’s not actually the question that’s fucking with you.

What you’re really asking is: “Can I create my own meaning if there isn’t one baked into the universe?”

And the answer is yes, but it makes you uncomfortable because it means taking responsibility.

Much easier to either find the meaning (someone else’s job) or declare there isn’t one (also not your job).

Sartre had this whole thing about radical freedom. Basically, you’re “condemned to be free.”

Sounds dramatic, but what Jean-Paul was getting at is that having no predetermined meaning is terrifying precisely because it means you have to make the choices.

No cosmic instruction manual.

No customer service line to ring when you’re confused.

You know where it gets interesting?

You don’t actually want meaning handed to you. You’ve tried that.

Remember when you thought getting promoted would make everything make sense? Or finding the right relationship? Or moving to that dream city?

How’d that work out?

But you also don’t want to fully accept meaninglessness because that sounds like giving up.

Sounds like the kind of thing someone says right before they buy a sports car and start wearing leather jackets at 58.

The trick is recognizing that these aren’t opposing positions.

They’re the same thing viewed from different angles.

Life has no inherent meaning AND you get to create meaning. Both true. Simultaneously.

Like how light is both a particle and a wave, which sounds like physics bullshit but actually makes perfect sense once you stop trying to make it one or the other.

Camus understood this.

The whole Sisyphus thing isn’t about futility, it’s about ownership. You’re rolling the boulder up the hill either way.

The question is: are you going to be miserable about the cosmic joke, or are you going to own the absurdity and decide the rolling itself matters because you say it does?

I spent six years searching for the meaning of life in books, articles, and YouTube videos. Proper seeker mode.

And you know what I found?

Nothing that wasn’t already sitting in my own head.

The meaning was always “what do I care about right now?” Not what should I care about. Not what the universe wants me to care about.

What do I actually give a shit about?

Turns out, meaning is a verb, not a noun.

It’s something you do, not something you find. Like happiness or purpose or any of those other abstract concepts we treat like lost car keys.

The people who seem most content aren’t the ones who found the answer.

They’re the ones who stopped asking the question in its current form.

They’re not searching for meaning or accepting meaninglessness. They’re too busy making lunch, calling their mum, writing jokes, fixing things, building things, loving people. Just think about this for a second.

Which brings us back to you, standing in that doorway.

You can’t have it both ways, you think.

But you’re wrong.

You can absolutely have it both ways. No cosmic meaning. Your own meaning. Both. At the same time.

The universe doesn’t care what you do with your life, and that’s precisely why what you choose to do matters.

Stop treating this like a philosophy exam where you need the right answer.

There isn’t one. That’s the point.

That’s also the freedom.

Now get out of the fucking doorway. You’re letting the cold in.

Stay curious, stay skeptical.

Srini

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I was on Tinder last week. I saw a profile. Her name was Katy. 182 centimeters tall. Her bio said: “Men under 185 cm, respectfully pass.”

Respectfully pass. Like this is a funeral procession and I need to show proper etiquette while being rejected based on millimeters.

She liked my profile first.

Let me repeat that. She. Liked. My. Profile. First.

I am 178 centimeters tall. This information is clearly listed on my profile. She saw it. She processed it. She liked me anyway. Then I matched with her and suddenly the height police showed up.

I sent her a message: “I see you’re 182. I’m 178. If we both lie down, we’re exactly the same height. Interested?”

She responded: “You wish.”

That’s it. Two words. The full extent of our romantic potential, reduced to two words and a dream that will never be realized because I am seven centimeters short of her arbitrary minimum.

Seven centimeters. That’s less than three inches. That’s a sandwich. A thick sandwich, but still a sandwich. I am being rejected over sandwich thickness.

But this is not about Katy. Katy is simply one representative of a much larger problem. The height obsession. The mathematical precision of attraction. The specific, non-negotiable requirements that apparently determine compatibility.

185 centimeters. Not 184. Not 180. Not “around 6 feet.” Exactly 185 centimeters. Like she measured it with a laser and submitted the findings to a scientific journal.

I matched with another girl a few months ago. I said “Hi.”

Basic greeting. Universal. Harmless.

She responded: “If only you were 2 cm taller.”

Two centimeters. I am 178. She wanted 180. Two centimeters was the distance between me and romantic consideration. Two centimeters is the width of my thumb. I am being judged by thumb width.

I said, “I’ll wear heels.”

She said, “Then you’d just be a short guy in heels.”

Devastating. Accurate. But devastating.

What I want to know is: what happens when she actually meets someone who is 185 centimeters? What is the plan exactly? What does this height unlock?

Does he reach things on high shelves? Is that it? Is this entire requirement based on kitchen storage solutions? Because I can get a stepladder. I can get several stepladders. I can get a stepladder for every room. Problem solved. We can date now.

Or is it about pictures? Does she want to look smaller in photos? Because I have news. Camera angles exist. Perspective exists. You can make anyone look any height with the right positioning and a wide-angle lens.

My friend Oda is 165 centimeters. She told me she only dates men over 185. I asked why.

“I want to feel protected,” she said.

Protected from what? Predators? Weather? The harsh realities of modern existence? How does 20 centimeters of additional human provide protection from anything except maybe a light drizzle if he stands directly over you?

I am not arguing that attraction is logical. Attraction is never logical. Attraction is chaos. Attraction is madness. Attraction is why people fall in love with their exes’ friends and ruin Thanksgiving forever.

But this is not attraction. This is a spreadsheet. This is data entry. This is requirements and qualifications and minimum specifications like I’m applying for a job at a corporation that manufactures height-based romance.

Last month I saw a profile that said, “190 or swipe left.”

190 centimeters. That’s 6 foot 3. That’s not a preference anymore. That’s hunting for a specific endangered species. Only 14% of men are that tall. She has eliminated 86% of the male population before they even say hello.

But fine. Okay. She knows what she wants. Specificity is good. Better than wasting everyone’s time.

Except she also listed her own height: 158 centimeters.

Let me do the math for you. The height difference between them would be 32 centimeters. That’s over a foot. That’s not a couple. That’s a parent chaperoning their child at a school dance.

What is the conversation? How does that even work? Is he bending down for every interaction? Is she standing on furniture? Are they communicating via pulley system?

I matched with someone who was 176 centimeters. I am 178. Perfect. Reasonable. We’re in the same height neighborhood. No ladders required. No oxygen tanks needed for altitude adjustment.

First date. She wore heels. Fine. Normal. Expected. She was now 184 centimeters. Taller than me.

She spent the entire dinner looking uncomfortable. Not with me. With herself. With the situation. With the fundamental wrongness of being taller than the man across the table.

I could see her doing the math in her head. Recalculating. Wondering if this violated some cosmic rule she’d been taught about how relationships are supposed to look.

Second date did not happen.

I am 178 centimeters tall. I have been 178 centimeters tall since I was 19 years old. This is not going to change. This is the final number. Evolution has concluded its work on my vertebrae.

I am not short. I am average. Globally average. In most of Asia, I am tall. In the Netherlands, I am a child. But in Germany, where I currently live, I am statistically, mathematically, scientifically average.

Yet I am too short for Katy. Too short for the 182-centimeter girl. Too short for anyone who has decided that love begins at 185 and ends at 184.

Fine.

I updated my profile last week.

Under requirements, I wrote: “Women under 175 cm, respectfully pass.”

I got three matches immediately.

All of them were 176 centimeters or taller.

All of them messaged me first.

Apparently, nobody likes being told they don’t qualify.

Imagine that.

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I was on a date last month. Twenty minutes in. We’re still doing the mandatory interrogation phase where you ask each other questions to determine basic compatibility before committing to appetizers.

She asked me, “Are you a dog person or a cat person?”

I looked at her. She was smiling. Waiting. This was apparently a critical question. A dealbreaker question. The question that would determine whether we ordered dessert or went home separately.

I said, “I like both.”

Her smile froze. Like I’d just told her I collect human teeth as a hobby.

“You can’t like both,” she said.

“Why not?”

“Because you’re either a dog person or a cat person. That’s how it works.”

That’s how it works. According to whom? Who wrote these rules? Who decided that enjoying two different types of animals is philosophically impossible? The Geneva Convention? The United Nations? A committee of veterinarians in Switzerland?

I refused to pick. On principle. She spent the next 15 minutes trying to force me into a category like I was a library book that needed proper shelving.

“Okay but if you had to choose.”

I don’t have to choose. That’s the whole point. Nobody is holding a gun to my head demanding I pledge allegiance to one species.

“But theoretically.”

There is no theoretical. I like dogs. I like cats. This is not a contradiction. This is not a moral failing. This is basic arithmetic.

She gave up eventually. We did not order dessert.

This happens constantly. At parties, at work, on every single dating app profile I’ve ever seen. Dog person or cat person? Pick one. Choose your identity. Commit to the binary.

Why?

Why does everything need to be polarized into two opposing camps? Why can’t I appreciate that dogs are loyal and enthusiastic while also appreciating that cats are independent and dignified? Why am I being forced to participate in some kind of species-based civil war?

I like pizza. I also like sushi. Nobody ever corners me at a party and demands I choose between Italian and Japanese cuisine for the rest of my life. Nobody makes me wear a badge that says “pizza person” and then judges me for occasionally eating ramen.

But with animals? Suddenly it’s a binding contract. A permanent declaration. A core component of your personality that people will use to make sweeping judgments about your entire character.

“Oh, you’re a cat person. That explains everything.”

What does it explain? What have you learned about me from this information? That I appreciate an animal that poops in a box instead of outside? This tells you nothing about me except that I’m willing to tolerate an animal that judges me silently from across the room.

Which, now that I think about it, is excellent preparation for most of my relationships.

My neighbor Elif is a dog person. She told me this within 30 seconds of meeting me, unprompted, like it was her name and occupation. “I’m Elif. I’m a dog person.”

Great. Fantastic. I didn’t ask, but now I know where you stand on the great animal divide.

She has a golden retriever named Barkley. Very original. She also hates cats. Not dislikes. Hates. With a passion usually reserved for war crimes and terrible movies.

I asked her why.

“They’re sneaky,” she said.

Sneaky. That’s the crime. Cats are sneaky. Unlike dogs, who famously announce their every intention with barking and tail wagging and the subtle grace of a freight train.

I like dogs. I do. They’re wonderful. Loyal, friendly, always happy to see you even if you’ve only been gone for 90 seconds to check the mail. They love unconditionally, which is beautiful and also slightly concerning if you think about it too long.

But I also like cats. They have boundaries. They have dignity. They don’t need you every second of every day. They’re the only animal that looks at you and you can tell they’re thinking thoughts. Possibly judgmental thoughts. Possibly thoughts about your life choices. But thoughts nonetheless.

Liking both of these qualities is apparently too complex for modern society.

Last week, someone asked me the question again. Different date. Same question. Same expectation that I would pick a side like I’m joining a political party.

I gave her my honest answer.

“I like pigeons.”

She stared at me.

“Pigeons,” I continued, “are underrated. They’re smart. They can navigate cities better than most humans. They mate for life. They’ve been domesticated for thousands of years. People used to race them. People used them to send messages across continents. Now we treat them like flying rats and nobody appreciates them anymore.”

She did not call me back.

But I meant it. I do like pigeons. I also like dogs. And cats. And rabbits. And that one particularly intelligent crow that follows me to work sometimes and I’m 80% certain is plotting something.

I like animals. All of them. This should not be controversial. This should not require justification or explanation or a 20 minute defense of my character at a restaurant.

But it does.

Because we live in a world where you must choose. Dog or cat. Pizza or sushi. Coffee or tea. Democrat or Republican. iOS or Android. As if enjoying two things simultaneously is a logical impossibility that violates the fundamental laws of the universe.

It’s exhausting.

Next time someone asks me if I’m a dog person or a cat person, I’m saying fish.

Let them sit with that.

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I noticed something fascinating this week.

People I have known for years suddenly became military strategists overnight.

Last month one of my friends texted me to ask how long you’re supposed to boil an egg. Today he’s explaining missile strategy in the Middle East with remarkable confidence.

Apparently all you need to understand geopolitics is a cup of coffee, a calm tone, and absolutely no doubt about anything.

The transformation happens very quickly.

One day someone is debating whether oat milk tastes significantly different from almond milk.

The next day they are calmly explaining what the United States, Iran, and half the world should do next.

There is always a moment in these conversations when the person leans forward slightly and says something magical.

“You know what they should do?”

This is my favorite part.

Because apparently decades of diplomacy, intelligence briefings, military planning, and international negotiations could have been solved much faster if world leaders had simply asked my friend.

I find it comforting that the same people who panic when the Wi-Fi stops working for seven seconds have a very clear plan for stabilizing the Middle East.

The confidence is what fascinates me most.

These are people who need three different apps to remember their passwords.

Yet when it comes to geopolitics, suddenly everything is crystal clear.

They know the motives. They know the strategy. They know exactly what will happen next.

Maps appear. Arrows are drawn. Also, serious nodding takes place.

At some point I realized something more interesting about all this.

When the world becomes complicated and uncertain, our brains rush to simplify it.

We like the feeling that somebody understands what is going on.

Preferably us.

Personally, I try to be careful about pretending I understand global conflicts. I sell ships for a living, which already feels complicated enough most days.

But seemingly, the situation is much clearer than I thought.

Because judging by recent conversations, the solution to decades of geopolitical tension is currently being explained somewhere over coffee by a person who last week was still figuring out how long to boil an egg.

Which is reassuring.

If the situation escalates, I know exactly who to call.

Wishing you a peaceful Sunday. ✨

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I was scrolling Instagram last night. Some news post about Trump doing something. I don’t remember what. Doesn’t matter. There are too many to keep track of at this point.

Someone in the comments wrote: “We owe the Germans an apology.”

Who is we?

I sat there staring at my phone trying to decode this. We. The universal we. The we that apparently needs no clarification or context or geographical specification.

Then it hit me. We means Americans. Obviously. Because on the internet, everyone is American until proven otherwise.

I am not American. I have never been American. I will never be American. Yet somehow, every comment section, every discussion, every “we” I encounter online automatically includes me in the American experience whether I signed up for it or not.

This happens constantly.

“We really need to fix our healthcare system.” Which we? Your we? My we? The German we? The we that already fixed it 50 years ago?

“We need to vote in the midterms.” I can’t vote in your midterms. I don’t even know when your midterms are.

But no. On the internet, we are all American. It is the default setting. The factory configuration. The baseline assumption that requires no discussion because obviously everyone reading this is reading it from Iowa or Texas or California.

I was in a Zoom meeting once with colleagues from eight different countries. Someone from Chicago said, “So this will launch during our fall season.”

Our fall season.

Whose fall season? Australia’s fall is in March. Your fall is their spring. When you say fall, half the people on this call are doing mental gymnastics trying to figure out which hemisphere you mean and whether you’re talking about September or April.

But she meant American fall. Obviously. Because that is the only fall that matters.

The World Series. Let me sit with this for a moment. The World Series. The championship of the world. Featuring teams exclusively from the United States. And one team from Canada. Which apparently counts as the world.

Japan plays baseball. Korea plays baseball. Cuba plays baseball. The Dominican Republic produces half the players in the MLB. But the World Series is just American teams playing each other for the title of world champion.

Nobody questioned this. Nobody stood up at the naming meeting and said, wait, should we maybe call it the American Series? The National Series? Anything that doesn’t claim jurisdiction over the entire planet?

No. World Series. Done. Moving on.

I was talking to someone from Seattle about travel once. He told me he’d “been all over.”

I asked where.

He listed 12 US states.

That was it. Twelve states. All of them in the same country. That is not all over. That is all over one country. A big country, granted. But one country.

I have been to 28 countries. This doesn’t make me special. I live in Europe. I can accidentally end up in three different countries in one afternoon if I miss my train stop. But this person genuinely believed listing states was equivalent to international travel experience.

To be fair, Americans are traveling more now. I see them everywhere. Usually wearing shorts in October and asking where they can get a “real coffee” in Italy while holding their Starbucks cup from the airport.

But at least they’re traveling. That’s progress. Twenty years ago, only 30% of Americans had passports. Now it’s up to 42%. Still less than half. But progress.

Meanwhile, in Germany, not having a passport is like not having shoes. It’s not a statement. It’s not a choice. It’s just bizarre.

Last month, someone on Reddit posted “our president just signed this executive order” with no context, no country tag, no indication of which president or which executive order or which governmental system we’re discussing.

I clicked into the comments.

Everyone knew exactly which president. Everyone was already arguing about the executive order. Nobody asked which country. Nobody needed clarification.

Because obviously, it’s America. The default nation. The implicit we.

I am sitting in Germany, drinking coffee, reading a comment section full of people saying “we” and “our president” and “this country” as if we’re all sitting in the same room attending the same town hall meeting in the same nation.

We are not.

I don’t have your president. I have a chancellor. Different system. Different person. Different country.

But on the internet, I am apparently American by default setting.

The funniest part? I bet half the people reading this right now assumed I was American until I mentioned Germany. Even after I said I wasn’t American. Even after I specified Germany multiple times.

Because we are all American on the internet.

Until proven otherwise.

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In Germany, when someone sneezes, you don’t say “bless you.” You say “Gesundheit.” It means health. Just a plain, practical wish that the person remains well. No religion, no superstition. Germans heard “bless you” and thought, we can do better than that. Very German.

It’s actually a reasonable system when you think about it.

I have been thinking about it. Extensively. Against my will.

Last week I was sitting at my desk, minding my own business, when my colleague Tobias, who sits to my right, sneezed. My colleague Heike, on my left, said “Gesundheit” immediately. Like she’d been waiting for it her entire career. Tobias said “Danke.” My colleague Finn, sitting directly opposite Tobias, also said “Gesundheit.” Half a second later. Tobias said “Danke” again.

Fine. Normal. Everyone performing their social duty. Moving on.

Then Tobias sneezed again.

Heike said “Gesundheit.”

Finn said nothing.

Tobias said “Danke” to Heike and then looked at Finn. Not an angry look. Not even an accusatory look. Just a look. The specific look that means I see you, I have noted this, I have opened a file with your name on it and this is the first entry.

Finn understood. You could see it land on his face. He understood completely.

Then Tobias sneezed a third time.

Heike said nothing. Finn said nothing. Both of them suddenly fascinated by their computer screens with the intensity of people who have just discovered the internet for the first time. Then Arne, who sits on the other side of Tobias and had been completely uninvolved in any of this, said “Gesundheit” with the energy of someone throwing a life preserver off the side of a ship.

The whole office exhaled.

I said nothing. Not the first time. Not the second. Not the third. Not ever. In this office. In any office. In Germany. In any country. In any language.

Not because I’m rude.

Because I’m honest.

I genuinely do not believe saying “Gesundheit” does anything for anyone. Someone’s nose twitched. Their body handled it. The sneeze concluded successfully without my involvement. Why are we all now participating in a ritual nobody has questioned since approximately the 14th century?

Who decided this was mandatory? And more importantly, why does everyone just comply without a single objection?

I will not say something I don’t mean. That is not rudeness. That is integrity. The truly dishonest thing is looking someone dead in the eye after a sneeze and wishing them health with the same sincerity you’d use ordering a coffee.

And before anyone nominates me for a rudeness award, let me raise the more important question that nobody is asking.

What is the actual protocol?

Because Tobias has a cold. It is minus 8 degrees outside. It has been snowing since November and shows no signs of stopping before spring or personal apology. He is going to sneeze again. Many times. Today. Tomorrow. The rest of the week.

Is Heike supposed to say “Gesundheit” every single time? Sneeze number eight? Sneeze number 22? At what precise point does she get to stop? Is there an official limit? A legal maximum? Does she have to keep going until he recovers completely or until one of them transfers to another department?

Nobody has thought this through.

If you genuinely mean “Gesundheit” as a sincere wish for someone’s health, then logically you should mean it the most when someone actually has a cold. That is precisely when they need health. That is when the wish counts for something. Sneeze number 31 on a Wednesday in February should receive the most enthusiastic “Gesundheit” of the entire year.

Nobody is doing that. Nobody.

Which proves my point entirely. Everyone says it because everyone else says it. A social reflex wearing the costume of good manners.

I will not be part of this.

Last Thursday, I sneezed.

Heike said nothing. Finn said nothing. Arne said nothing. Tobias, who had received a combined total of no fewer than 40 Gesundheits from this office over the course of one week, said absolutely nothing.

Complete silence.

I looked around. Everyone was staring at their screens.

And here is the thing I was not expecting to feel in that moment.

Nothing. I felt nothing. No embarrassment. No wound. No urge to explain myself or renegotiate my position. My sneeze concluded successfully without anyone’s involvement, exactly as I always knew it would.

I was completely fine.

Which means I was right.

I am always right about these things. The problem is it usually takes longer to prove.

Tobias sneezed again this morning.

I said nothing.

We understand each other perfectly now.

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Last week I wrote about reading My Husband’s Wife the moment it came out. Still reading it. Still very much awake at dawn because of it.

Which brings me to the people who are just going to wait for the movie.

You know who you are.

The entire point of a book is what happens inside the character’s head. The thoughts, the doubts, the small observations, the moment they notice something and spend eight paragraphs processing what it means. That IS the book. That is literally the whole thing.

The movie cannot show any of that.

So what do they do instead? They show you a face. Looking out a window. With music playing. Sad music if it’s serious, slightly hopeful music if there’s a turning point coming.

That’s it. That’s what replaced 40 pages of internal monologue. A face. A window. Clouds moving outside. A tear that may or may not be there depending on how close the camera gets.

Directors call this “subtle acting.” Film critics call it “a masterclass in restraint.”

I call it: you cut the entire book and replaced it with a window.

And somehow the person watching this in a reclining seat with a bucket of popcorn walks out of the theater and says “I know that story now.”

You don’t know the story. You watched a summary. You watched someone’s face react to events that the movie didn’t have time to explain properly because they were too busy filming window scenes.

The book spent 28 pages explaining exactly why the character made that decision. The decision that the entire story depends on. The decision that only makes sense if you understand everything that led to it.

The movie gave it 45 seconds and a meaningful look.

And yet the movie people always find something to complain about. “The casting was wrong.” Of course the casting was wrong. You spent 378 pages building a precise, specific human being inside your imagination. No casting director in the world can win that competition.

I’ve started asking people if they read the book before watching the movie. Just as a test.

One girl told me she watches the movie first “to see if the book is worth reading.”

I need to sit with that for a second.

You watch the 2 hour version, stripped of everything that makes it worth reading, to decide if the full version deserves your time? That’s like eating a photograph of a meal to decide if you’re hungry.

My friend Tosca does this with every book club selection. Watches the movie, shows up to book club, contributes confidently to the discussion. Nobody has caught her yet. She’s been doing this for three years. She told me this proudly.

The worst part isn’t the movie. Movies are fine. Some adaptations are genuinely good.

The worst part is when someone watches the movie and then tells you about “the book.” They describe the plot, the characters, the ending, with complete authority. And what they describe is completely, technically, accurate. Every plot point correct. Every character name right. And somehow still entirely wrong about everything that actually mattered.

That’s not the book. That’s the window version.

My Husband’s Wife will eventually become a movie. I’m sure of it. Five stars, Alice Feeney, it’s only a matter of time.

When that happens, I’ll be the insufferable person at the dinner table saying “the book was obviously better.”

Because I read it as soon as it came out. While the ink was practically still wet.

I’m already preparing my smug face.

Next month, Ryan Gosling’s Project Hail Mary hits theaters. Andy Weir wrote 496 pages of one of the most brilliant scientific minds ever put on paper. Every equation, every calculation, every desperate thought process of a man trying to save humanity alone in space.

I cannot wait to watch Ryan Gosling look out a spaceship window.

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Last Sunday I finished The Housemaid by Freida McFadden. Great book. Twisted ending. Really enjoyed it.

The book came out in 2022.

The movie adaptation hit theaters, ran its course, and is now available for streaming starting February 3rd. Meanwhile, I just turned the last page of the book day before yesterday like some kind of literary archaeologist discovering ancient texts.

I have a reading list. Well, two reading lists actually. The main list has 445 books. The “I’m definitely reading these next” list has 78 books. That second list is supposed to be the urgent one, the priority queue, the books I’m absolutely going to tackle immediately.

Except “immediately” apparently means “within the next two decades.”

Every month, Reese’s Book Club announces their pick. Then Oprah’s Book Club releases theirs. Jordys Book Club jumps in with their selection. Every December, twelve different publications release their “Best Books of the Year” roundup. I dutifully add these titles to my list, watching the number climb like a stock ticker in a bull market.

Meanwhile, I’m still processing a thriller from three years ago.

Then there are the people who read 16 books per month. Sixteen. That’s one book every two days, assuming they take weekends off, which they probably don’t because they’re too busy reading.

What do these people do for a living? Do they have jobs? Families? Do they sleep? Or do they have some sort of speed reading technique where they just absorb entire chapters through osmosis?

I asked one of these super readers once how she does it. She said, “Oh, I just read whenever I have free time.”

Free time? I have free time. I use it to stare at my bookshelf feeling guilty about all the unread books.

The worst part is watching books get adapted into movies before I’ve read them. I added Where the Crawdads Sing to my list when it came out. By the time I got around to buying it, the movie had already premiered, gotten mixed reviews, and left theaters. Now it’s on streaming and people are already calling it “that old movie.”

I haven’t even cracked the spine.

Last month I went to watch the latest Avatar movie. They showed me The Housemaid trailer before the film started. I didn’t ask for the trailer. Nobody asks for trailers. I closed my eyes. I covered my ears. I still hadn’t finished reading the book. I don’t like spoilers. But you can’t go anywhere anymore without getting spoilers. Movie theaters, social media, casual conversations at coffee shops. Someone always ruins it.

My friend Odette reads everything the moment it comes out. She’s always current, always in the conversation, always ready to discuss the latest literary sensation. Last week she mentioned a debut novel that “everyone is talking about.”

I looked it up. It came out nine days ago. Nine days. I have books from 2018 that I haven’t touched yet, and she’s already finished something that was published last week?

She already knows how the story ends while I’m still deciding whether to move it from List Number One to List Number Two.

And don’t even get me started on the people who reread books. Rereading! They’ve somehow lapped the entire literary world and are going back for seconds while I’m still stuck at the starting line with my pristine, unopened copy of Educated from 2018.

On January 20th, they published My Husband’s Wife by Alice Feeney. Five stars everywhere. How could I not purchase it? I bought it yesterday. February 2nd. This book will definitely be on the “Best Books of the Year” list by December.

So I did something radical. I opened it on the train ride home. Started reading immediately. No adding it to the list. No waiting three years. Just opened the book and started reading like some kind of functional human being.

I’m already 28% through it. Didn't stop reading until midnight. Woke up this morning and picked it up before I even made coffee. Is this what it feels like to be one of those people?

You know what? I’m done being three years behind. I’m reading every single book the moment Reese picks it. The second Oprah announces her selection, I’m buying it and cracking it open. Jordys Book Club drops their monthly choice? I’m on page six before the announcement email finishes loading.

By December, when those “Best Books of the Year” lists come out, I’m going to have read every single one of them. Not in 2028. Not eventually. This year. When someone brings up the latest literary sensation at a dinner party, I’m going to nod knowingly instead of frantically adding it to my phone’s notes app.

I’m going to be that insufferable person who’s already finished the book everyone else just heard about. The one who casually drops “Oh yes, I read that back in March when it came out” while everyone else is still deciding whether to add it to their list.

I’m going to be so smug about it.

My 445-book reading list? Still there. Still growing. Still mocking me from the depths of my Goodreads account.

But for once, just this once, I’m going to be current. I’m going to know what people are talking about when they talk about it, not three years after the conversation has moved on.

My Husband’s Wife is just the beginning.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have 72% of this book left to finish before Reese announces next month’s pick.

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Three episodes. That’s all it takes now.

Three episodes before I start mentally drafting my breakup speech to Netflix. “It’s not you, it’s me. Actually, no, it’s definitely you.”

I used to be careful. I’d wait for a show to get renewed for season two before committing my precious evening hours. I had a system. A foolproof algorithm more complex than whatever Netflix uses to recommend me shows about competitive baking.

But then they got me with “The OA.” Eight episodes of brilliance. Renewed for season two. I’m thinking, “Finally, Netflix and I understand each other.”

Season two ends on the most spectacular cliffhanger in television history. I’m emotionally invested. I’ve told eleven people about this show. I’ve become that person at dinner parties who says, “You HAVE to watch The OA.”

Canceled.

They canceled it like someone canceling a dentist appointment. “Yeah, we’re not gonna do that anymore.”

What kills me is that, and I mean literally shortens my lifespan by measurable increments, they don’t even have the decency to wrap it up. No movie. No special episode. Not even a tweet saying, “Sorry about that cliffhanger, here’s what would’ve happened in eight bullet points.”

Nothing.

Just silence. The streaming equivalent of ghosting after three dates.

And the worst part? I keep falling for it. I’m like that person who keeps touching the hot stove, except the stove is Netflix and instead of my hand getting burned, it’s my heart and my ability to trust major corporations.

Last year, I discovered “Mindhunter.” Phenomenal. Two seasons of perfection. I checked Reddit. I checked Twitter. Everyone’s saying season three is coming.

I invested. I told fourteen people this time. I upgraded my recommendation game.

“On hold indefinitely.”

That’s not even canceled. That’s worse than canceled. That’s the “we’ll call you” of television. It’s the streaming service equivalent of “let’s be friends.” They’re keeping me in emotional purgatory, preventing closure.

You know what Netflix is really good at? Giving me seven seasons of a show about nothing happening in a small town where everyone mumbles. That gets renewed faster than I can say “Why am I still watching this?”

But a critically acclaimed, audience-beloved show with actual storytelling? Three seasons maximum. They treat it like milk. There’s an expiration date, and it’s always sooner than you think.

I’ve started a new policy. I refuse to watch any Netflix original unless it’s been explicitly marked as “completed.” I need that label. That promise. That contract.

What keeps me up at night more than it should is that they’ve trained me to expect disappointment. I now start every new show with an exit strategy. I’m emotionally hedging my bets like I’m day-trading with my feelings.

Episode one: “This is interesting.”

Episode three: “Okay, I’m enjoying this, but I’m not decorating the nursery yet.”

Episode six: “I’ll allow myself to care, but only 60 percent.”

Season finale: “That was incredible, but I’m prepared for it to end forever right now.”

This is no way to watch television. This is how you watch a relationship that you know is doomed. This is the streaming equivalent of dating someone who keeps saying they’re “not ready for commitment” while you’re picking out matching throw pillows.

And the real tragedy? I’ll keep my subscription. Oh, I will. Because somewhere in that algorithm-driven content library is the next show that’ll make me feel something before inevitably ripping my heart out and replacing it with a reality show about people organizing closets.

But at least now I know better than to tell anyone about it until I’ve confirmed it has a proper ending.

Or I’ll just keep lying to myself. That’s more likely.

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Mallory and I were at a coffee shop last week when she ordered a brownie. The waiter asked if she wanted it with dark chocolate or milk chocolate.

“Milk chocolate, obviously,” she said, like he’d just asked if she preferred oxygen or carbon monoxide.

I asked why so definitive. That’s when she dropped it on me.

“Dark chocolate defeats the purpose of eating chocolate.”

I stared at her. “What purpose?”

“Chocolate is supposed to be sweet, not bitter.”

“But dark chocolate is still sweet. Just less sweet.”

She shook her head like I’d suggested we eat our desserts with forks made of celery. “If I wanted something healthy, I’d eat a salad. Chocolate is supposed to be unhealthy. That’s the whole point.”

And there it was. The unspoken rule I’d been breaking my entire adult life without realizing it.

I’ve been eating dark chocolate for years, thinking I was just exercising personal preference. Turns out I’ve been committing a social crime. I’m the person who shows up to a party with vegetables when everyone else brought cookies.

Later that week, I brought dark chocolate to my office. You’d think I’d brought asbestos samples.

Ophelia took one look at the 85% cacao bar and physically recoiled. “That’s not chocolate. That’s a punishment.”

“It’s actually quite good,” I said.

“If by ‘good’ you mean ‘tastes like sadness mixed with dirt,’ then sure.”

My colleague Henrik weighed in. “Dark chocolate is what happens when chocolate gives up on life.”

Even the office intern, who I’d never seen turn down free food of any kind, looked at my dark chocolate like it might file a lawsuit against her.

I started noticing this everywhere. At birthday parties, someone always brings a “healthy” dessert option, and it sits there untouched while the cake gets demolished in minutes. Because apparently, if you’re going to sin, you might as well go to the deepest circle of hell. No one wants the lite version of indulgence.

It’s like when people order a Diet Coke with their triple cheeseburger and large fries. At least they’re being honest about their priorities. But dark chocolate? That’s trying to have it both ways. That’s claiming you’re breaking the rules while secretly following them.

My doctor told me dark chocolate is good for my heart. You know what’s also good for my heart? Not having this conversation with Mallory every time we meet for coffee.

She’s developed a theory. “People who like dark chocolate are the same people who say they ‘enjoy’ going to the gym. They’re lying. Nobody enjoys suffering. We just pretend to because society tells us suffering equals virtue.”

“So you think I’m lying about liking dark chocolate?”

“I think you’ve convinced yourself you like it because you read an article about antioxidants.”

What kills me is the same people who reject dark chocolate will spend fifteen dollars on a kale smoothie that tastes like a lawn mower’s nightmare. But suggest 70% cacao and suddenly they’re chocolate purists with standards.

Rodrigo from accounting put it best. “If I wanted to eat something bitter and pretend to enjoy it, I’d become a coffee person. At least coffee wakes you up. Dark chocolate just makes you feel smug.”

And maybe that’s the real issue. Dark chocolate carries this air of superiority. It’s the yoga instructor of desserts. Meanwhile, milk chocolate is the fun friend who doesn’t judge you for eating ice cream for breakfast.

I’ve started a new strategy. When someone offers me chocolate, I don’t ask what kind. I just eat it and keep my mouth shut. Because apparently, having an opinion about cacao percentages is like having an opinion about pineapple on pizza or which way toilet paper should hang.

Some battles aren’t worth fighting.

But between you and me? I still prefer the 85% cacao. Not because it’s healthy. Because I genuinely like the taste.

I’m just not telling Mallory that.

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I’ve got eight books sitting next to my bed right now. Not eight books I’m reading. Eight books I’ve started and abandoned at various checkpoints, like runners who gave up mid-marathon and just sat down on the curb.

There’s a biography of a jazz musician stopped at page 43. A philosophy book marked at page 78. A mystery novel that lost me somewhere around chapter three. Each one represents a moment when I thought, “Tomorrow, I’ll continue.” Tomorrow came. I bought another book instead.

My friend Astrid finished War and Peace in two weeks while working full-time and training for a marathon. I can’t finish a 200-page memoir with a lot of free time and every technological advantage. Something is fundamentally wrong in our generation.

We blame phones, obviously. Easy target. But that’s not quite it.

I started tracking my reading habits last month. Not with an app or anything fancy, just a notebook where I’d write down every time I picked up a book and every time I put it down. The pattern became clear within days.

I never stopped reading because I was bored. I stopped reading because I felt guilty.

Guilty that I should be working instead. Guilty that I should be learning something more practical. Guilty that sitting still with a book felt like wasting time when there were emails to answer, posts to write, skills to acquire, networks to build, and money to earn.

Reading became a luxury I couldn’t justify, even to myself.

My neighbor Ottilia finishes two books a week. I asked her secret. She said she reads terrible books on purpose. Romance novels with predictable plots. Mysteries where you can guess the killer by page 30. Sci-fi that takes zero brain power to process.

“If I read books that matter,” she explained, “I feel pressure to remember everything. To have smart thoughts about them. To finish them properly. But if I read trash? Pure pleasure. No stakes. I actually finish them.”

This hit different. Have we turned reading into homework? Into self-improvement. Into performance art for our social media feeds. “Look at this profound book I’m reading” while the bookmark hasn’t moved in three months.

When did we stop reading for joy and start reading for credentials?

Two months ago, I met a guy named Henrik on a train. He’s 68 and recently retired. I noticed he was reading an actual physical book, completely absorbed. No phone in sight. No laptop nearby. Just a man and a book, existing in the same space, like a snowman.

I watched him for a bit before interrupting. He was so absorbed he didn’t notice me sitting across from him. When he finally looked up, I asked what made him different. How could he still read like that?

“I’m not trying to become anything,” he said. “You’re all still trying to become something. That’s the difference.”

The point landed like a punch. Every book I pick up comes with an agenda. I’m reading to become smarter, wiser, more cultured, more successful. I’m reading to transform myself into someone better. Someone more valuable.

Henrik? He was just reading because the story was interesting. That’s it. No hidden purpose. No self-improvement project. Just the simple act of being present with words on a page.

We’ve optimization-ed ourselves out of finishing things.

Think about it: we can’t finish books, but we can finish Twitter threads just fine. We can scroll for hours. We can binge-watch entire seasons in a weekend. The attention span excuse doesn’t hold water.

The real issue? We’ve lost permission to do things without purpose. Without productivity. Without measurable outcomes.

Reading a book doesn’t produce anything. It doesn’t advance your career. It won’t get you promoted. It’s not content for your brand. It’s just you, alone, existing with someone else’s thoughts for a few hours.

And somehow, that became unacceptable.

I’m not going to tell you to delete your phone or quit social media or join a reading challenge. Those solutions miss the point entirely. They’re just more goals, more pressure, more becoming.

What if the solution was simpler? What if we just admitted that reading isn’t a virtue project or a personal development plan? It’s just reading. Sometimes you finish the book. Sometimes you don’t. And both are fine.

My goal this year isn’t to finish more books. It’s to stop feeling guilty about the ones I don’t finish. To pick them up without pressure. To put them down without shame.

To read like Henrik does: without purpose, without agenda, without trying to become anything at all.

Just being present with words on a page. That’s enough. That’s always been enough.

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It’s Sunday morning. Hamburg has been buried under snow for three days straight, which means I’ve been trapped inside with nothing but my thoughts and four avocados.

But these aren’t just any avocados.

These are the ugliest avocados in Northern Europe. And they’re perfect.

Three weeks ago, I told you about my avocado problem. Eight years of buying avocados. Eight years of catastrophic failure. I’ve spent roughly €2,340 on avocados that I’ve thrown directly into the bin. That's not an estimate. I kept receipts. I have a spreadsheet. I back it up weekly. I'm not losing this data.

My accountant asked why I had a line item for “Avocado Losses” on my tax forms. I told her it’s a gambling addiction. She suggested therapy. I told her therapy won’t teach me how to pick produce.

But I kept buying them anyway. Every week. Like some kind of produce masochist. I stopped getting shocked when they disappointed me. Shock requires surprise, and there’s nothing surprising about avocados being terrible. That’s what they do.

It’s like people. If you’re still getting shocked when people disappoint you, you must be incredibly naive. Or new to Earth.

The internet had opinions, naturally. A guy on YouTube said press the top portion and if it goes inside, that’s the right one. I tried this. I pressed so many avocado tops I developed what I can only describe as avocado thumb. My doctor had never seen it before.

Someone on Reddit wrote an eleven-paragraph manifesto about the optimal Brix scale for avocado ripeness and suggested I purchase a refractometer. A refractometer! For fruit! I don’t even own a thermometer.

Another person swore by the color method. “If it’s green, it’s too hard. If it’s black, it’s too soft. You want dark green.” Okay, but what’s the Pantone number for dark green? Is it forest? Is it hunter? Is it the green you see right before you give up on life?

I tried everything. I bought hard ones and waited. I bought soft ones and rushed. I bought medium-priced ones thinking I’d found the sweet spot between cheap garbage and overpriced garbage.

Nothing worked.

But yesterday, I decided to visit four different stores. Because apparently I’ve become the kind of person who needs multiple grocery stores for a single ingredient. REWE, Edeka, Lidl, and that small Turkish market on Steindamm that’s always mysteriously well-stocked.

At the fourth store, I was staring at the avocado display, ready to give up entirely, when I saw it in the corner. One avocado that looked like it had survived a natural disaster. Bruised. Dented. It had what appeared to be a scar running down one side.

It was hideous.

And that’s when it hit me.

Beautiful people are shallow. Why wouldn’t beautiful avocados be the same?

I’ve been doing this backwards my entire adult life. I’ve been choosing avocados the way I’d choose a date on a dating app. Pretty exterior. No substance. Disappointing interior. The metaphor was right there the whole time, mocking me.

So I went back to the other three stores. I retraced my steps through the snow, hunting specifically for ugly avocados. The ones with bumps. The ones with weird discoloration. The ones other shoppers were actively avoiding.

One from each store. Four ugliest avocados in Hamburg. I brought them home like rescued animals.

This morning, I cut into the first one.

Green. Creamy. Perfect.

I’m eating it right now as I type this. The avocado I bought with my own hands. The avocado I selected with my own questionable judgment. It’s mine. And it’s scrumptious.

Maybe it’s the snow. Maybe Hamburg’s three-day winter apocalypse has altered the fabric of reality. Maybe this is the year my luck changes. Maybe the avocados finally realized they can’t shock me anymore and got desperate for my attention.

It’s January 4th. I’ve already fulfilled my New Year’s resolution. I’m winning at life.

This feels significant. Monumental, even. I should commemorate this moment. I should do something grand.

I’m going to collect the ugliest avocados in Europe.

I’m going to tour European grocery stores, seeking out the most aesthetically unfortunate avocados on the continent. Brussels. Paris. Rome. I’ll document everything. I’ll rate them. I’ll create a ranking system.

I’ll call it “The Ugly Avocado Expedition.”

My friends think I’ve lost my mind. But they don’t understand. For eight years, I’ve been losing a war against produce. Now I’ve found the key. This changes everything.

I might even plant an avocado tree. How hard could it be? I just figured out how to buy the things. Growing them is probably easier.

The snow is still falling outside my window. My second avocado waits on the counter. Ugly. Beautiful. Mine.

This year is going to be different. I can feel it.

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I’ve made a New Year’s resolution.

A real one. Not the kind that collapses by January 3rd while eating something fried and apologizing to myself.

From next year, I am only dating women who read books.

That’s it. One rule. One requirement.

Not height. Not age. Not star sign. Not “vibes.”
Books.

Now, before you accuse me of being elitist, judgmental, or emotionally unavailable with a library card, let me explain.

I don’t mean she once read a book. I don’t mean she “loves books” the way people “love hiking,” which turns out to mean they once stood near a hill and complained.

I mean she reads. Currently. Voluntarily.

I want to be able to ask, “What are you reading?” and not watch her pupils dilate as her brain frantically searches for a safe lie.

Because I’ve noticed something alarming.

When someone doesn’t read, conversations start to feel… thin. Like soup that looks promising but turns out to be hot water with emotional garnish.

You talk. They nod. You add a thought. They respond with a noise.

And then there’s a pause. A dangerous pause.

Reading people fill pauses differently. They pause to think. Non reading people pause like their system is buffering.

I don’t need a genius. I don’t need someone who reads Russian novels in the original language while sighing dramatically.

She can read thrillers. She can read essays. She can read something with a terrible cover that she secretly loves.

I don’t care what she reads. I care that reading has rearranged her inner furniture at least once.

Because reading does something very specific to a person.

It slows them down. It teaches them to sit with discomfort without immediately reaching for a distraction. It teaches them that not everything needs a reaction within three seconds.

Which is huge.

I want to date someone who can listen to a sentence all the way to the end. Someone who doesn’t interrupt a thought like it’s an ad they can skip.

Also, and this is important, readers argue better.

They don’t SCREAM. They don’t perform. They don’t bring unrelated childhood incidents into a discussion about what to eat.

They say things like, “I see your point.” Which is intoxicating.

I once dated someone who said, “I don’t really read, but I watch summaries on YouTube.”

Summaries.

That’s like saying you don’t eat food but you enjoy smelling other people’s plates.

Another one told me she prefers “short content.”

Short content.

I said, “You mean sentences?” She laughed. I wasn’t joking.

Reading also reveals character in small ways.

How someone treats a book tells you everything. Do they bend the cover? Do they finish it? Do they abandon it halfway and blame the book?

That’s a relationship preview.

And let’s be honest. A person who reads has already been on several internal journeys.

They’ve been bored. Confused. Moved. Annoyed by an author. Changed their mind halfway through a chapter.

They’ve practiced being alone without panicking.

That matters.

This is not about intelligence. Some of the smartest people I know don’t read much.

This is about patience. Curiosity. And the willingness to stay with something that doesn’t immediately reward you.

Also, very practical point.

If she reads, she understands silence.

Silence isn’t awkward to her. It’s familiar. It’s where things happen.

So yeah. Next year, I’m narrowing it down.

No long questionnaires. No psychological profiling.

Just one question.

“What are you reading right now?”

And if the answer is honest, curious, or slightly defensive but real, we’re good.

If the answer involves the word “thread,” I wish her well.

This is not a standard. It’s a filter.

Not to keep people out. But to let the right ones stay.

Happy New Year. May your attention span survive it.

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Before the year ends, I want to pause. Not to summarize achievements. Not to count wins. Not to perform closure.

Just to stand still for a moment and look at what this year quietly taught me.

This year didn’t teach me how to be louder. It taught me how to be more precise.

More precise with my words. More precise with my time. More precise with what I allow to stay in my life.

I learned that doing the right thing is rarely dramatic. It doesn’t announce itself. It doesn’t trend. It doesn’t always reward you immediately.

But it lets you sleep at night.

Integrity is not a personality trait. It’s a daily cost. You pay it when no one is watching. Especially when cutting corners would be easier.

I learned that small things are not small at all.

Showing up when you said you would. Listening without waiting to speak. Replying with honesty instead of strategy. Keeping your word even when it’s inconvenient.

Big gestures impress people. Small consistencies build a life.

This year made me deeply allergic to noise.

Noise in conversations. Noise in opinions. Noise in performative outrage and empty confidence.

I found myself craving slower exchanges. The kind where no one is trying to win. Where silence is allowed. Where you leave feeling clearer instead of stimulated.

Depth doesn’t shout. It waits.

I also learned that peace is not passive. Peace is chosen. Again and again.

You choose it when you don’t escalate. You choose it when you walk away from chaos disguised as excitement. You choose it when you stop explaining yourself to people committed to misunderstanding you.

Peace costs ego. It’s worth every unit.

This year reminded me how fragile attention has become.

We skim lives the way we skim headlines. We scroll past thoughts we would have once sat with for hours. We confuse speed with intelligence and reaction with insight.

I don’t want to live like that.

Next year, I want to read more. Not to impress. To rewire.

Reading stretches time. It returns patience to the nervous system. It reminds the brain that depth exists.

A person who reads regularly thinks differently. They pause more. They react less. They see patterns instead of fragments.

That matters.

I also want to write more. Not louder writing. Truer writing.

Writing that doesn’t chase applause. Writing that doesn’t dilute itself for reach.
Writing that leaves something behind in the reader.

If even one sentence stays with someone longer than a day, it has done its job.

This year taught me that kindness is not softness. It’s discipline.

It means staying decent when bitterness would feel justified. It means not passing pain forward just because it visited you. It means choosing warmth in a culture that rewards sharpness.

Kindness is strength with self control.

I don’t believe in drama. I don’t believe in games. I don’t believe in urgency manufactured by fear.

I believe in showing up. I believe in staying curious. I believe in humor as survival, not distraction.

If I carry anything into the new year, it’s this.

Move slower than the world expects. Care more than is fashionable. Speak less, but mean every word. Choose what deepens you, not what numbs you.

You don’t need a reinvention. You need alignment.

The year doesn’t need you sharper. It needs you steadier.

And if you enter the new year with nothing else, enter it with this quiet confidence.

You don’t owe chaos your energy. You don’t owe noise your attention. You don’t owe anyone access to the parts of you that took years to build.

The year is ending.

You’re allowed to begin again without spectacle.

I hope the coming year treats you gently. And I hope you treat yourself the same way.

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December third.

That’s when Spotify decided to tell me who I am as a person this year.

December third. Not December thirty-first. Not even December fifteenth. December third.

We’re three days into the final month and apparently my musical identity is already locked in. Case closed. Judgment rendered.

What if I discover jazz on December fourth? What if I have a life-changing experience with chamber music on the eighteenth? What if December is when I finally understand why people like reggae?

Too bad. You missed the cutoff. Your journey of self-discovery ended while there’s still Christmas shopping to do.

December is sitting there like a kid who didn’t make the team photo because they were in the bathroom. “What about me? I’m still here! I’m a whole month!”

But Spotify doesn’t care. Spotify has decided that December is the month where nothing counts. It’s musical purgatory. The waiting room of the calendar year.

You know what this means? Every song I listen to for the next twenty-eight days is statistically irrelevant. I could listen to the sound of whale mating calls on repeat for four weeks straight and Spotify Wrapped 2026 would pretend it never happened.

I have zero accountability for my musical choices in December. It’s a lawless wasteland. The Purge, but for playlists.

What really gets me is this: The year is completely arbitrary anyway.

Who decided January first was the beginning? The Romans? Those guys who thought lead pipes were a good idea? We’re still using their calendar system like it’s some kind of universal truth.

My musical year could start in March. Or July. Or on a random Tuesday in October when I finally got over that breakup and stopped listening to Adele exclusively.

But no. Spotify has decided that human experience fits neatly into a calendar year that ends on December third.

At least Spotify Wrapped used to be special. It was just Spotify. One platform. One annual summary of shame and questionable taste.

Now everyone’s doing it.

My email provider sent me Email Wrapped. Apparently I sent 2,896 emails this year. Congratulations, you’re anxious and employed.

My food delivery app gave me Takeout Wrapped. You ordered pad thai forty-one times. We’re not judging. Except we totally are.

My parking app. Parking Wrapped. You parallel parked unsuccessfully 83 times. Here’s a humiliating montage.

My meditation app sent me Meditation Wrapped, which feels like it defeats the entire purpose of meditation. “You were present for 3.2% of your sessions and catastrophically anxious for the rest. Namaste!”

Even my toothbrush. My toothbrush has Bluetooth and it sent me Brushing Wrapped.

I don’t need my toothbrush to have opinions about my life choices.

Next year my refrigerator is going to send me Midnight Snack Wrapped with a detailed breakdown of every time I stood there at 2 AM eating cheese directly from the package like some kind of dairy-obsessed raccoon.

We’ve turned data collection into a personality quiz. We’ve gamified our own surveillance.

And the worst part? We’re excited about it.

People are sharing their Spotify Wrapped like it’s a dating profile. “Look at my top artists! This is who I am! Please validate my taste in music so I can feel seen!”

I saw someone post “My Spotify Wrapped says I’m in the top 0.3% of listeners for this band” like they’d won a competitive sport.

You didn’t win anything. You just listened to the same song 4,000 times because you have unresolved emotional issues and no health insurance.

But we eat it up. We’re desperate for any algorithm to tell us we’re special.

“Congratulations! You’re in the top 1% of people who listened to lo-fi hip hop beats to study/relax to!”

That’s not an achievement. That’s a cry for help.

And December is watching all of this. December is standing in the corner, excluded from the annual performance of self-discovery through streaming data.

Poor December. The forgotten month. The asterisk at the bottom of Spotify’s terms and conditions.

December doesn’t even get to be part of your musical identity because Spotify needed to compile the data before New Year’s Eve when everyone’s too drunk to care.

So here I am. December third. My year is apparently over. My musical identity has been determined.

And I have twenty-eight days of consequence-free listening ahead of me.

I might as well lean into it.

Starting today, I’m only listening to sounds of trains. Just trains. For the entire month.

Spotify Wrapped 2026 will never know.

December will remember.

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