Zig or zag?

I had a dream last night. In it, I was riding the subway for the first time in months. Walking along the platform was cleaner than normal, but still dirtier than I expected. Dirtier than I had hoped. Luckily, I brought a comically large brush and soap bucket that fit in my clown car inspired briefcase. I was primed and ready to scrub. There were rats, but not nearly as many as normal. They were spread out, too, in a moving display of interspecies solidarity. I nodded at one who casually removed his tiny bowler hat in response, as if to say, “we’re all in this together.” Where he purchased such a fitting piece of headgear remains a mystery. Then a stranger wearing his mask like a decorative chin strap nearly bumped into me. I figured he wanted to have words about his right to live in a soap-free society and bathe on his own time. 

“Excuse me, but how would you define your writing style?”

“I get asked this all the time. Too often to count. Too frequent to remember. My go-to answer is a recruiter’s dream. I’m witty, brilliant and authentic. My wit drips from the page. My brilliance glistens from the screen. And my authenticity comes with a certificate that’s signed and individually numbered. I’m my own mentor.” 

“I hear that all the time.” 

As he moved closer, I tried to get away. Sensing that he wanted to continue the conversation with a real genius, I sprinted to the other end of the platform. 

What else could I say? Nothing, as it turns out. I got out at the next stop and woke up moments later. But the words of the stranger stuck with me through my morning cup of coffee and blueberries. To be clear, they were in separate cups. He wasn’t wrong. Everyone I know is either witty and brilliant or hilarious and insightful. They’re all authentic, cultivating a genuine fanbase through honesty, integrity and unabashed irreverence. Perhaps it's time to go in a different direction. 

In my daze, it soon dawned on me like a rising sun: you’re not going to stand out through an acerbic wit or a well-written story. The world has plenty of super-smart people. Those that willingly use wordsmith as a verb and not a noun. Wit is everywhere. Ham-fisted, clunky prose - now that's what sells. Pointless fables without a moral or a clear narrative tickle your senses. 

There’s a practical, self-preservation angle to all this, as well. Tell a good joke and people will instinctively move closer. Tell a bad one and they’ll change cars, giving you the space you so desperately need. Six feet is just the beginning. You’ll be all alone surrounded by your half-cocked thoughts and unenlightened inner monologue. Social pariahs know how to socially distance.