A recent night’s events made me wonder, once again, about the adequacy of my bullsh*t (BS) tolerance. I won’t bore you with the details of what happened, all that matters is that it didn’t make me feel great. I’ve always joked that my BS tolerance is quite high and that nobody needs to worry about scaring me away by saying things that might not be considered entirely socially acceptable or even politically correct or that are just plain weird. I have lived by that principle for a couple of years now, almost always accepting what people tell me, no matter the subject, oftentimes without questioning any of it out loud for fear that investigating any further could make them uncomfortable (f*** my own comfort, right?!).
Sadly, I made the experience that people like to take advantage of this little “hall pass” I’m so generously handing out.
It’s all fun and games as long as the BS is just talking nonsense until everyone’s abs hurt from laughing. That’s the best kind of BS, the one that doesn’t harm anyone and just serves the purpose of distracting from the seriousness of adulthood and life in general. Then there’s the less fun (for at least one of the involved people) kind of BS, which could also be referred to as lies or half-truths, which are basically also lies because hiding part of the truth is also intended to deceive.
It sure is easier to tell lies to someone who’s accepting of whatever you say and doesn’t question what you say out of fear of causing you discomfort. I don’t think that makes it okay though. I might not ask questions but that doesn’t mean I’m not worrying about what people say to me. In fact, I almost always fret about the BS I’ve been told, trying to understand what it means and how it fits into my knowledge of the originator of the BS. If I can’t figure it out on my own I might eventually ask about the meaning of it, but I’m usually not getting a satisfactory answer at that point − surprise, surprise.
Long story short, if people want to deceive me, they usually manage to do so. Coming to terms with that realisation really sucks though. I’ve always thought of myself as a skilled “people reader” but it turns out I’m really not. I’m just far too nice and care about other people’s feelings too much and too little about my own. Something to work on starting now.
No more BS.
Carrot Days 