An indictment of nice people.

Well, hello, you anxious little mammal, you.

You're back for more of my ramblings.

And yes, yes, yes, it's been like twelve days—but who needed more pieces like mine during a week like last week? It had everything. It was a very intense week.

So now, as I clench my teeth with rage because some asshole nearly blew out my eardrums to warn me that my motorcycle's trunk was unlocked—even though there was nothing inside that could fall out, and even though I did not ask for his help—I finally have the inspiration I need to write this one.

This one has been coming for a long time.

This one will close the gaps and prove, once and for all, that I am a terrible person.

Absolutely.

Completely.

Forever.

So, without further ado, this is my personal condemnation of nice people.

And if you've lived in this world for long enough, maybe you carry the nice tag yourself.

You know what? People tend to think I'm nice because I'm polite.

But my politeness has an edge.

I am polite to people, but I never consider that politeness an authorization for them to come closer. I try to be polite and distant, hoping people will think: "Oh my God, I understand how this man works. I will keep my distance from him in exactly the same way."

It never works like that.

So, how do we go about condemning nice people?

Actually, this is not even a denunciation. I already conducted the entire trial in my head, and they are fucking guilty.

Get this.

About a year ago, I had a neighbor who lived just across the hall. I think the day he moved out was one of the happiest days of my life.

And that man was so incredibly nice.

Oh, I could have hanged him.

Once, I was carrying a ridiculous amount of stuff to my car because I was going out to fly several of my drones. I had two boxes and a pile of other things to move, and at the time I still had not replaced my front-door lock with a fingerprint reader.

This incident is actually what inspired me to do it.

I left my key hanging in the door because my hands were full, I did not want to deal with the fucking keys, and I live in a perfectly safe place.

So this paragon of manhood, this absolute monument to everything masculine, decided that I needed his help.

It was time for him to be nice.

He walked over to my door, grabbed the key, opened the door, removed the key, threw it inside, and closed the door.

Then he waited for me with this deeply satisfied smile, as if to say: "I saved your bacon, brother."

And I was standing there thinking: "Oh my God. Now I have to call a fucking locksmith."

Yeah.

Nice people.

If hell is other people, then nice people are the devils assigned to torture everyone down there.

People tend to use niceness as an excuse to involve themselves in other people's business.

And that is the problem.

I have been guilty of extreme niceness from time to time, but I keep it as a last resort. I do not wander around town looking for opportunities to shine like the crazy diamond David Gilmour sang about.

No, no, no.

I try to give everyone space and respect that space because people are busy living, right?

Sometimes, of course, you have to cross the line and help someone. If somebody drops their wallet, leaves their backpack behind, or is about to lose something important, then by all means, be nice. Be performative about it too, if you must.

But have you ever driven down the road with one of your car doors not completely closed? The first latch caught, but the second one did not. The door wobbles a little, but it probably will not open unless you kick the fucking thing.

You might assume that this is your problem.

You would be wrong.

People take it personally. I have watched people miss their exit and do just about anything imaginable to get the attention of someone whose door is not perfectly closed. And it is not even, "Oh my God, I am terribly worried about your safety." I am usually alone in the car. There is nobody sitting behind that door. No child is about to tumble onto the highway. Nobody is at risk.

It is just me, driving around with a slightly wobbly door.

Yet behind me, someone is flashing their lights, honking, waving both arms, and presumably screaming: "Oh my God, you dirty son of a— You absolute fucking idiot!"

Why? Because the door is not perfectly closed.

This is not kindness. It is a performance of kindness designed to make the performer feel good about themselves.

So my neighbor was not being a meddlesome asshole.

No, no, no.

He was being a hero. He was stepping into the scene, correcting the universe, and saving the helpless fool across the hall from the terrible danger of having his own key exactly where he had deliberately left it.

He was simply being his usual amazing self.

And, really, there have only been a few times in my life when I have been genuinely happy to watch someone back away from me, walk out of my life, and disappear forever.

Not many times.

But that neighbor was one of them.

Then again, I love being alone, so perhaps I am not the most impartial judge.

The thing about niceness is that, for society to function properly, we should always be willing to help—but we should never force our help on other people.

But the problem with performative niceness is that, most of the time, nobody needs it.

Perhaps it is necessary to warn someone that their door might open once in a thousand cases. But is that tiny possibility really worth crossing into their world? Is it worth honking at them, harassing them, driving dangerously close, and behaving like some fucking Neanderthal piloting the Flintstones car down the road?

Why?

It is my fucking problem. I did not ask for your help.

And this epic of unkindness actually has a third chapter. Same man.

I don't know if I ever mentioned it here, but I have two dogs. And they are crazy. And they are big. And they need about twenty-two kilograms of food a month.

So, after I got sick, I constantly needed help to get the food up to my apartment. But during my recovery, I had been improving a little bit. Even if I'm still chronic, I have improved.

So one day, I got to the lobby, and the damn bag was there. About a quarter of my weight in dog food. I looked at it, and I said: "You know what? I'm up for the challenge."

And I was still using my cane, but I put the damn thing on my shoulder and started walking toward my apartment. Toward the elevator. Toward fucking personal achievement.

Cane and all, I was doing it. I wasn't carrying the damn thing like it was nothing, but I was doing it.

I got to the elevator, pushed the button, and hunched over a little bit to wait.

And then I felt the thing being ripped off my back.

Ripped.

And I started hearing a lecture about how I shouldn't be carrying stuff. And it was this fucking guy. And I swear to you, I was praying for the floor to open and a fucking volcano to swallow us, or hell to open its jaws and swallow us both, or make him eat my cane or something.

I love ice cream, but in this case, I scream.

Or wanted to.

So, yeah, fuck me, I guess, but I can't stomach nice people. I consider niceness—especially unrequested, unoffered, out-of-nowhere niceness that hits like a brick and doesn't address anything serious—to be unbearable.

Really, people, keep it in your pants here.

It's like those guys—in Spain they call them gorrillas. They run this scam in which they help you park your car?

But that's a basic skill you should have learned when you took driving lessons, right?

So there's no real help being rendered, just a person trying to cash in on some low-effort "help," and that's exactly my problem with nice people: they are nice.

If you want to help, pick up litter, help orphaned kittens stop smoking, donate some money to those scam mills that tell you, "Adopt a shark," and then just send you a fucking bracelet.

Like, dude?

Wtf?

I want my fucking shark!

And my jaguar!

Join UNICEF or something. Stop collecting nonexistent social credit from help that doesn't help!

And please, hit me up so we can start a class-action lawsuit and get our fucking sharks at last!

Now, it's Friday. The perfect day to do something bad.

Consented.

But bad.

Like that fetish, the one that involves a woman crushing candy with high heels or something.

Whatever you kids like.