Malcolm in the muddle

Malcolm Gladwell Ruined My Life

Subverting happiness ten thousand hours at a time

Let’s face it, you wasted no time highlighting “Let’s face it” and writing a snotty response reminding me of the time you wrote let’s face it in your MuddyUm submission and I left a PN saying something like Stock phrase. Consider revising or deleting, you lazy piece of shit.

Before you try making a double entendre out of my use of the word submission let me remind you that Malcolm Gladwell would call you out for being a pervert. That’s what Malcolm Gladwell does when he isn’t making you feel guilty for washing your clothes in hot water or doing your dishes by hand. My therapist went on a dream golf vacation to Cancun with the money I paid her for the extra sessions I needed after that episode of his podcast.

I didn’t even know there was golf in Cancun, much less that my therapist played it. Had I known that I wouldn’t have chosen her when I entered therapists near me on Google maps. I’d go piss on her office door if I wasn’t worried someone would steal the cardboard box I moved into. It’s not easy to find a decent cardboard box these days. You have to look for recycling bins with a lot of cardboard sticking out the top. Even so, most people cut up the good ones so they’ll fit.

It’s all Malcolm Gladwell’s fault. I’d been doing my dishes by hand and washing my clothes in hot water for years. The thought I’d single-handedly destroyed the planet trepanned my skull to the point where I couldn’t think about anything except my own environmental sins.

I chased every environmental sin I could find. I even tore the little plastic windows out of the window envelopes from utility bills before recycling the paper part. I composed angry emails to the utility company about their desecration of the planet. I couldn’t sleep for four days thinking about all the glitter I’d used on that fourth grade art project. It was a monstrous poster of the Mercury 7 rocket. The art teacher thought it was weird but I was that kind of kid.

My wife left me. Took the kids. My dog left me. My cat left me. My hamster left me.

I was a good Catholic kid. When repeating my Hail Marys I wouldn’t accept anything short of perfect wording and pronunciation. If I messed up I’d start over again, then take off my belt and give myself a couple of whacks for good measure. My parents worried, but the priest assured them it was all good Catholic kid stuff — I’d grow out of it. I would have told my parents all about that priest but he warned me, and I didn’t want to go to Hell.

When I began bleeding from my hands and feet¹ though my parents shit five bricks apiece. The doctors at the psychiatric hospital hypnotized me, which was kind of fun, but not for the priest. The gig was up on that sorry old pervert.

You must be wondering why I told you all that. I’ll bet you think I made it all up to explain why I was so susceptible to Malcolm Gladwell and his guilt trips that he freaked me out to the point that I quit my job, would have walked out on my family if any of them were still around, took up the life of a hermit, and moved into a cardboard box on a forgotten street in Hoboken, New Jersey. It’s all Malcolm Gladwell’s fault.

Try telling him that. He’s such a smarty pants, he’d go on about people being ultimately responsible for their own actions, and all that late stage capitalistic bullcrap.

Go stick it up your nose, Malcolm Gladwell! I’m a loser and it’s all your fault. But I bet I’m easier on the environment than you, you climate hating, water fouling, planet destroying tool!

¹ stigmata

Many, many thanks to Gary Chapin and Amy Sea for their editing prowess!

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