There are rules, you know. Social rules. Unspoken guidelines passed down through generations of repressed puritans and HR departments that dictate what should never, under any circumstances, be uttered in polite company.
Naturally, these are my favorite topics.
Take money, for instance. People say, “Don’t ask what someone makes. Don’t discuss debt. Don’t mention how broke you are.” But why not? Why suffer in silence when we could trauma bond over our mutual subscription to BrokeFlix? I, for one, am always happy to compare overdraft fees, the APR on my credit card, or whether eating expired tuna is a cost-saving hack or a cry for help.
And then there’s religion. A taboo topic, they say. A powder keg. A one-way ticket to Thanksgiving violence. I say, pass the mashed potatoes and let’s discuss whether God would be a Libra or a narcissistic landlord. I’m just asking questions! If your eternal salvation can’t withstand my casual sarcasm, then maybe it needs stronger legs than “because the Pope said so.”
Now politics. Ah, yes. The conversational Molotov cocktail. Why keep it polite when you can watch someone’s soul leave their body after you ask, “So, how ‘bout that Supreme Court?” If I had a dollar for every time a casual brunch turned into a filibuster, I’d have enough money to finally pay for therapy—which I would then absolutely overshare with strangers at that brunch.
Speaking of oversharing, let’s talk health. Apparently, it’s “inappropriate” to describe the color, texture, and emotional impact of your latest bowel movement to a coworker just trying to microwave her Lean Cuisine. But how else will she learn about Crohn’s disease? WebMD? Please. I am the source.
Relationship drama? Oh, that’s definitely off-limits, which explains why I’ve monologued to baristas, Uber drivers, and a very nice woman I met in the Walgreens line about why my ex was basically a haunted Roomba with commitment issues. The world is my diary and everyone I meet is legally bound to listen.
Let’s not forget sex. Not the fun kind. No, I mean the awkward kind. The “I should probably save this for my therapist but here we are in line at Costco” kind. Because what brings people together like a deeply unnecessary anecdote about that one time with the guy, the swing, and the Nutella?
Also considered socially radioactive: body image commentary. But hey, if I don’t ask, “Do you think I’m aging like a fine wine or like expired milk that went to therapy once?” how will I ever get the validation I refuse to give myself?
Other things I’ve been strongly advised not to do in public:
- One-up stories like I’m in a trauma Olympics.
- Offer unsolicited advice like I’m an unlicensed life coach with a God complex.
- Gossip, unless it’s with at least three sources and a spreadsheet.
- Complain about work while still collecting the paycheck.
- Touch on race, gender, or sexuality unless I’m prepared to lose family, friends, and followers in the comments section.
But here’s the thing: these topics are real. They’re raw. They’re the messy human stuff that actually matters. And if we’re not talking about them—if we’re all just nodding politely over quinoa salad and pretending we’re not dying inside—what are we even doing?
So yes, I talk about things you’re not supposed to. Not because I enjoy discomfort (though your visible tension is oddly flattering), but because I crave connection. And if my inappropriate truth-telling sends you running for the nearest exit, well—at least you didn’t have to hear my thoughts on hemorrhoids this time.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go ask someone if their therapist also said they use sarcasm to avoid vulnerability. Spoiler alert: mine did.