Little Mrs. Sunshine

I know a couple of people. A couple of people who are just nice. The kind of people who when someone mentions their name the other person says, “Oh, that Larry, he’s so nice.” I don’t think anyone, ever, says that about me, at least not as the first describing adjective. Snarky, sure. Incredibly good looking, obviously. Modest, also obviously. Kind of a bitch, probably. Never, nice not unless told to pick the one that most describes me given a list that consists of: good at sport, nice, runner, tall, able to withstand frigid temperatures, frighteningly strong.

I can’t decide if it’s worth it to try to become nicer or if maybe that will just never be my thing, just like jogging. I think I might have better odds at becoming a jogger.

Often when I’m not nice I feel badly for it, after the fact but that doesn’t a nice person make.

How does a gal be nice when really all she wants to do is tell someone to shut-up and go away? (Yes, complain to me again about how you aren’t changing the thing you wish would change.)

How do I feign interest in someone’s super boring personal story? (Your baby’s poop was that color, huh, fascinating)

How do I volunteer to help someone with something that I’d rather not do? (Yes, please let me help you move)

Maybe I’m thinking about it too hard. Maybe if I just smile and nod people will THINK I’m being nice and they’ll only think that because they can’t hear all the snarky shit inside my head. That counts, right?


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