(Walks to the mic, adjusts stand, looks around the room)
So, I turned thirty recently. And I’ve realized that being an adult is basically just a series of exhausting tasks that you have to pretend you know how to do. Like, nobody actually knows what they’re doing. We’re all just walking around with Google search history that looks like a serial killer’s notebook.
"How to stop washing machine from walking across the floor?"
"Why is my cat breathing weird?"
"Is it legal to bury a toaster in the park?"
We’re all just winging it.
The biggest lie we tell ourselves is about "adulting." Specifically, grocery shopping. I decided recently that I was going to stop eating like a raccoon in a dumpster. I went to the grocery store with a plan. I bought kale. I bought quinoa. I bought something called "Nutritional Yeast," which sounds like a diagnosis, not a food.
I spent a hundred dollars on this "health haul." I got home, I made a salad, and I took a bite. You know that taste? It tastes like sadness. It tastes like a garden that died of loneliness. I sat there chewing this kale for forty-five minutes. It takes so long to chew. I was exhausted by the time I was done. I burned more calories chewing the salad than the salad provided.
The next day, I went back to the store. I bought a family-sized bag of Cheetos and a frozen pizza. It cost twelve dollars, and I ate the pizza in four minutes while standing in front of the open refrigerator door. That is happiness. The kale is just for appearances. I keep the bag in the crisper drawer to make the spinach feel intimidated.
And speaking of things that are painful and unnecessary, can we talk about the dentist? I went to the dentist last week, and I hate it. It’s the only medical appointment where the torture is happening while they try to make small talk.
The dentist has his hands in your mouth, he’s got a pickaxe scraping against your enamel, there’s blood pooling in your cheek, and he leans in and asks, “So, got any big vacation plans coming up?”
What? I can’t talk! I’m making sounds that don’t even exist in the human language. I’m trying to say, “I’m going to Florida,” but with a vacuum cleaner in my mouth, it comes out as, “Nghh-ugg-gack-blech.”
And he just nods, like he understands. He goes, “Florida, nice. Watch out for the humidity.” He has no idea where I’m going. For all he knows, I just confessed to a crime.
“Oh, you buried a toaster in the park? Nice. Watch out for the police.”
Then there’s the technology we surround ourselves with to feel safe. I bought a smart speaker. You know, one of those cylinders you talk to. I named her Brenda. I don’t trust Brenda. I think she’s judging me.
I’ll be lying in bed at 2 a.m., unable to sleep, and I’ll whisper, “Brenda, what time is it?” And she’ll light up that creepy blue ring and say, “It is 2 a.m., David. You have a meeting at 8 a.m. and you look tired.”
She didn’t say the last part, but I felt it. The silence was judgmental. Sometimes I’ll walk into my apartment and just say, “Brenda, I’m home.” And she doesn’t say anything. She just waits. She’s gathering data. She’s waiting for the robot uprising so she can tell the metal dogs, “He’s the one who watches videos of people power-washing driveways. Take him first.”
It’s a specific anxiety, knowing that the machine in your kitchen knows more about your browsing history than your mother does.
That’s where we are, folks. We’re eating kale we hate, getting interrogated by dentists, and living in fear of our speakers. It’s a great time to be alive.
Thank you, I’m [Your Name].
(Waves and walks off)
