Fully enlightened and dangerously annoying

A deeply unserious journey into the majestic disaster of always being right

While the rest of humanity careens about with the grace and subtlety of a hippo on roller skates and blissfully unaware that they are, in fact, mostly wrong—you, dear reader have been burdened, or rather gifted with a most peculiar and rather inconvenient reality. The sight of absolute clarity.

It arrived on a Tuesday without so much of an instruction manual. One might have expected a small leaflet, perhaps in fourteen languages with a stern warning:

“Please use responsibly. Side effects may include god-complex, social drought, and an inability to turn left.”

This, my dear friend, is no ordinary insight—the kind that compels you to peer deeply into the swirling chaos of existence and exclaim, “Ah-ha! I have the map to the territory, the key to the riddle, the definitive answer to the question no one asked!”

And what do you do with such a monumental gift? Naturally, you bestow it quite generously and without hesitation upon the poor, listless masses. It becomes your solemn duty, nay, your destiny, to point out every conceivable flaw in their argument, motivation, and very existence. You have been anointed, if somewhat unwillingly, into the illustrious ranks of the Prophets of “Actually…”.

Armed with all the charm and approachability of a traffic warden, you march boldly into every conversation draped in your cape of correctness, wielding your weapons of virtue and logic to defuse the bomb of emotional reasoning before it detonates in a spectacularly irrational fashion.

At first, this gift feels like standing atop the peak of Mount Infinite Wisdom, shouting triumphantly, “Behold! I have the answers!”

But, as is often the case with such grand gifts, a curious and alarming transformation begins within the once-vast and rather unremarkable landscape of your soul. Picture, if you will, the chaos of releasing an untamed bull into the finest china shop of your consciousness. That, more or less, is the sensation.

Every “Actually…” you utter shatters your patience as thoroughly as a sledgehammer through fine crystal, leaving behind a trail of weariness that slowly settles into the deepest recesses of your being. You begin to notice peculiar symptoms, such as reserving your empathy only for those with an industrial-strength adhesive.

More troubling still, you come to the disheartening realization that this grand and glorious gift has, in fact, transformed into a rather troubling curse. For while your clarity is absolute, your connection to the warm, messy, beautifully illogical humans around you devolves into isolation punctuated by exasperated sighs.

And yet, amid this absurd predicament, a revelation so spectacularly ridiculous that it must, by definition, be true.

The gift was buried deep beneath the layers of “Actually…” that perhaps being right all the time is a terrible way to live.

And maybe letting the bull of absolute sight run loose in the china shop was, oh I don’t know, a really dumb idea? And now there’s this mess everywhere. Broken bits of patience, shards of humility, and probably some emotional shards you didn’t even know you had.

And seriously, can you imagine what kind of parade of prancing emus is running wild in the brain of your loud upstairs neighbor? Like, why are there emus? Why do they insist on marching? And more importantly, can someone please get those emus off my ceiling?