Gluten-Free Truth For The Emotionally Constipated

Humans are hilarious.

They claim to want objective truths —

but only if the truth

comes dressed in soft pastels,

apologises twice before entering the room,

and doesn't ruin the goddamn brunch.

The truth is only fashionable if it's filtered.

If it's fuckable, and not fucking with your comfort.

Be too honest

and you’re cruel.

Be unapologetic about it

and you’re “problematic.”

Call a spade a spade —

and suddenly it’s a hate crime

against egos so inflated yet so fragile

it feels like a soap bubble delicately balanced at the edge of a safety pin.

Small talk is sexy now.

Ask someone about the weather,

their favourite colour,

what type of croissant they spiritually identify as —

and you’re a conversational god.

But dare to ask

what keeps them up at night?

What scares them about dying?

What they’d regret if tomorrow never made it?

Ah, now you’re “too intense.”

“Too overwhelming.”

“Too cynically depressing.”

Or worse:

“You must be going through something.”

Because existentialism isn’t soothing to the eye

unless it’s printed on a tote bag

sold at an overpriced boutique

sponsored by gluten-free neurosis.

Merit?

Talent?

Good fucking luck.

Those are liabilities in a culture

that rewards likability

over literacy.

Where wiping last night’s dinner

off a financially privileged asshole with confidence

is more employable and hence convenient

than someone who can dismantle

a corrupt system in five sentences.

Competence is offensive now.

Excellence is arrogance.

And ambition?

Well, ambition is just being needy and greedy

in dire need of unsolicited therapy.

We live in a world

where incompetence is charming,

mediocrity is a business model,

and the highest form of rebellion

is just…

doing your goddamn job

well.

Do it consistently enough

and you're an absolute outcast.

Be brilliant,

and you’ll be accused of trying too hard.

Be average,

and they’ll hand you a medal

just for showing up.

So don’t tell me

you want truth.

You want decoration.

You want digestible disillusionment

with a side of non-threatening laughter

and sugar-free trigger warnings.

So the next time you feel like asking for honesty —

just shut the fuck up.

Because bare-skinned honesty

doesn’t arrive with seatbelts or scented candles.

It arrives like a surgical blade

demanding your reflection,

not your agreement.

And the thing about truth is —

it doesn’t owe you a seat at the table

when you flinch at the knife

meant for your delusions.

Because honesty doesn’t cure.

It amputates.

It peels.

It pours salt into the parts you pretend don’t rot.

You think you want the truth?

Here it is —

You don’t matter.

Not enough to be wronged.

Not enough to be right.

Just another furniture

in an inexpensive exhibition of pre-owned collectibles. 

So the next time you feel like asking for honesty —

look in the mirror, and hope it doesn’t answer.

Because if it does —

you won’t survive what it screams.