Curiosity isn't a threat, it's the gift you've given up opening

Breathe. Relax your anus. And try reading something you normally wouldn't.

Thinking is under siege. Critical thinking was already lacking, but now the gap has expanded in a way I can’t even fully articulate without wanting to tear my laptop in two and eat the computer chips that lie across my bare chest.

I’ve been yelling at Substack this morning (well, more accurately, since I started posting here two weeks ago), and reminding people to check themselves, and writing my actual story— this is relevant, I promise— because as I was sweeping crumbs, my brain was getting increasingly aggravated as I cycled through the number of people who have required handholding through their thinking process in relation to my words. This is exacerbated by those who protect their gilded seats (…yeah, more fucking orange checkmark rage), as if somehow being questioned is a personal attack, shaped in the words of someone just… being silly (and, sometimes, super helpful).

As if humour requires zero intelligence.

Right. That’s why pseudo-intellectuals are often known for their piss-your-pants sense of humour.

Humour is a diagnostic tool for me. It tells me if you can play. If someone can— welp, I’ve got a boner, and I’ll tell them AND you all about it. Not because it’s sexual, it’s intellectual PLAY. (Parched people are abundant.)

But really: DO YOU KNOW HOW RARE THIS IS?!

So it got me thinking about the time I spend explaining myself. And I’ve decided I am done.

I’m just fucking done.

Except under one absolutely fucking delightful caveat: I will provide clarity if your sphincter relaxes enough to ask, “What do you mean by that?”

And opening. A release of tension. A willingness to explore.

Because as sexy as intellectual stimulation is (and it IS), vulnerability is right there. Emotional intelligence is fucking hot.

Here’s my game plan:

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Misunderstand me?

That’s fine.

I am not here to make sense to people who don’t ask clarifying questions.

We were taught to ask questions about the things we didn’t know from childhood. Exploration is how we learn. Obviously, you don’t know everything. You’d be a fucking AI if you did.

Somehow, we’ve taken not just unknowing, but seeking to mean idiocy, weakness, and/or frailty.

There are different kinds of intelligence that learn in unique ways. This shouldn’t be surprising, or groundbreaking, or news to you. Especially if you consider yourself educated or intelligent, but— here we are. This is why we’re always bonkin’ our heads around and yelling, “no, you’re stupid” all over the internet and then all polite and “civil” in real life, until we’re behind a vehicle or a gun or a mob of people.

Children living in adult bodies all over this joint, and by joint, I mean Substack.

It’s pretty clear why, but, again, maybe it’s not. Let me explain:

Somewhere, someone said, “Your questions are wrong. Your questions are stupid.” And that became an internalized setting.

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(Unless you were that one asshole robot-kid who actually did know everything. I’m looking at you, Marc with a ‘c’. jk. He was like a little red-headed sweet boy. Wherever he is these days.

Punk motherfucker.)

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No. What’s stupid is allowing someone else’s insecurity around your ability to remain curious a personal failing.

That’s my invitation to anyone:

If you don’t understand something I say, or anyone, really, ask.
If they are not an asshole, they’ll clarify. If they’re an asshole, tell them to suck a dick. Easy.

I am not here to make sense to people who don’t ask clarifying questions. I am not here to argue reality with people who refuse to look at the bear riding the tricycle in the subway.

Because healthy adults ask questions. Why IS there a bear riding a tricycle in the subway? (Good fucking question, let’s go ask him.)

And if that feels too scary for you, then you have to heal the part of you that thinks vulnerability = pain.

Here’s what I promise you, from me:

I am not mocking you. Ever.

If asking questions is hard and it feels like I might be sliding a blade between your ribs with my comments, I’m not. I get why it would feel that way sometimes, because people do wield blades like they’re cool or something (btw, they’re not). Cool people don’t hurt people. That’s just straight-up adult facts of life.

If I comment on your work, I am pointing to something I see. It might be an incongruence in who you say you are and what you project out into the world. It might be something I find adorable about you and want to tease. It might just be something that I found funny— completely separate from you, like a little sugar cube I’m leaving in the world for the people to give me back my intellectual boners.

That’s how you connect with people (now). You drop little sugar cubes and see who bites.

Sometimes people bite the dirt instead of the sugar.

Sometimes people nibble and laugh nervously.

Sometimes people come trotting over like, “NEIGGHHHH GIVE ME SOME MORE NIBBIES.”

Ya know, different strokes.

^^ Humour is a diagnostic, remember.

And, unfortunately for both of us, you can’t hide from me.

I can read you through text.
I can read you through your topics, your picture, and your cadence.
I can read you through who talks to you and what you talk about with whom.
I can see who your friends are because my brain loves to just fucking match shit up like I’m playing guess who with 6 cards up (I can do that, you know. Wanna play?).

And even still:

If you were/are feeling I’m being pompous or my horse needs its knees kicked in, don’t worry, people laughed at me, too. I stopped raising my hand and speaking in class. I’d shake and cry at the thought of having to do presentations. I would beg my mom to stay home.

In grade 8, I missed 45 days of school. This was one of my happiest grades in school socially.

And for years, my internal compass fluctuated between the external:

You are an idiot

and my internal:

No, you’re actually amazing.

And every day is a step toward the latter. Bill understands this intricately.

It’s okay if you can’t keep up with me. I don’t care. Why do you?

I want a group of people around me who delight me. I want to laugh until I feel high while I’m sober. I want to enjoy the way people work without them thinking I’m judging them. I just want to love on your silly, awkward, hilarious, brilliant mind.

Is that weird?

People can laugh when I say I hold out for someone romantically who can see me and not combust at my brain, who can meet the full wattage of me. I’m not even at full voltage yet. My healing arc is in progress: I’m mid-separation, mid-no income, mid-rebuilding my entire life with no family. I’m not even really online, which sounds bizarre considering my output. And I have a young daughter. I’m saying: I KNOW I CAN BE A LOT, and there’s only more on the way.

I think your brain is beautiful. Why can’t I talk about my brain being beautiful, too?

So, I won’t stop asking questions.
I won’t stop being curious.
I won’t stop reminding people who laugh at me from a self-imposed high ground to remember to check their mirror and their blind spot before backing their ass into the ditch they’re digging. I think that’s kind, isn’t it?

Because I don’t back down. Because I don’t pick fights that are morally flimsy. In fact, I don’t pick fights at all. I speak truth.

And I ask questions: is this strange, is this too much, is this okay, am I allowed?

Before I take one look at Bill and say, “Duh, stupid,” laugh, and hit publish.

I don’t want you to have to question every thought you have, the way I have had to.

I don’t want you to have to slowly learn that slow growth is fine if it’s REAL. And that artists who are doing fine should consider piety with their support, not assholes. Uptight ones— not fun ones.

So, this is for the ones who’ve remained in the conversation about who they are.
The ones who love their brains, regardless of what they’ve been told.
And the ones who fight for those who aren’t quite there yet.

To every one of you who hasn’t given up the gift of curiosity, hey, nice ass. 👀

I love ya.

To a lifetime of curiosity,
M.A.M.aaaaaa
(This is how I used to write my name on assignments in Grade 8. Ah, boy.)