Glenn Beck, whoever that is, held a rally on September 12 (I can’t remember the year) to unite us as a country, like we were on September 12, 2001. I can’t begin to list all of the ways this is a lie, so I won’t. Remember, though, regardless of where you were, what it was like when the world ended, but the next morning, life went on. We had no idea how we were supposed to move forward. Somehow, we did.

When Donald Trump pulled his face off to reveal Elon Musk making a Nazi salute, the world ended. Those of us with any decency had been betrayed by their neighbors, their coworkers, their bosses, some of whom are now saying, “I didn’t vote for this!” Judges are upholding Elon’s draconian cuts and unprecedented access to the confidential information of innocent Americans.

Somehow, life goes on.

It’s bad out there. I don’t need to tell you why. I can’t look at the news without wanting to vomit, and this is not an exaggeration. It’s hard to remember what it was like to be happy, even for a minute. Your body and mind are seeking out dopamine. There are lots of ways to get a little hit of it, but the best way is to pay someone a compliment. That way two people get dopamine hits.

Lately, for no reason, I’ve been more aggressive about pointing out things I like about a person. The dam burst when I was sitting in the dressing ballroom at St. Mark’s Episcopal Church with Lisette listening to my expertise about dresses. I have no expertise, but somehow suggesting binder clips(?) was the solution.

Lisette’s performance and character are my favorite part of Metromaniacs. I realized then there was no reason to keep this to myself. So I told her. She was startled, but touched. The next day, I told Lucille that she had that influencer vibe, and she told me she hadn’t looked at it that way. I’m looking forward to telling Mondor that his fall is art.

I’ve started bugging strangers on the street, making them smile for a moment. It’s not always rewarding, as in the three elder Zoomers walking side-by-side. As I passed them, I said, “You guys look really fucking cool, keep it up.” Then I added, “I’m being sincere. You really look cool walking like that.” Their expressions said, “Who the hell is this crazy old person?” And I think they were waiting for me to hit them up for some Molly.

I’m telling you all this because I need to brag. Bragging is in fashion. However, you only get to brag if it’s about the size of your bank account and/or penis, how much gas your car goes through, and how much people love you. Culture has criminalized bragging about the good things you do.

Well, go fuck yourself, culture, because I’m bragging about making life a tiny bit better for a tiny amount of people. It’s easy, it’s free, it only takes a few seconds, and you can turn someone’s day around. I’m bragging because I want more people to do it.

I got my hair cut two weeks ago in a slightly different style, and someone in the office noticed, and it made my morning. How could I not want to do that for other people?

I’m not a good person. I’m passive-aggressive, my manners have atrophied, my lizard brain is kind of racist, I’m impatient, and I’m a disappointment to my cat. But I like to think I’m a decent person. I do try to have some empathy.

It’s in the spirit of this that I say this: You. Yeah, you. The one reading this. You have a great smile, and I love seeing it. Except you, Lisa. Your mouth is nightmare fuel.