Be honest. Most of us aren’t living. We think we’re operating at 10/10, when in reality we’re at a simmering 6. We’re:

• Waiting for things to slow down.

• Waiting for motivation.

• Waiting for That Thing™ to happen.

• Waiting for the perfect job.

That’s where all the “I’ve been meaning to…” things go to die. Your half-written novel. That podcast you almost launched. Your “big ideas” are gathering dust in your Notes app.

Meanwhile, life’s moving fast. If you’re in your mid-30s reading this, you only have about 2,000 weeks left in your life.

You wanted to change the world. Instead, you subscribed to another newsletter about changing the world.

When people see someone else succeed, they think, “I could’ve done that.”

Yeah. Maybe. But you didn’t.

And that’s the only difference that matters.

Think of the dumb ideas that actually worked:

• Post-it Notes — “What if we made glue that doesn’t really stick?”

• Airbnb — “What if we let strangers sleep in our bed?”

• Red Bull — “What if we sell a can of anxiety from Austria?”

Every one of them sounded stupid—until it didn’t.

The line between “dumb” and “brilliant” only exists after someone tries.

So if you’re sitting at a simmering six, staring at a folder full of “somedays,” here’s a thought:

Maybe it’s time. Because the dumbest thing you can do now—

is nothing.

(Les Brown’s writing inspired this)

Here’s the fix. It’s stupidly simple:

1. Don’t start with the thank you.
2. Start with anything else.
3. Then say thank you.
4. Then, stop. Go live your life.

This is a genre of email we all write. Reluctantly. Automatically. With the same charisma as a compliance checkbox.

It’s not that gratitude is bad. It’s that when you start with it, you leave yourself nowhere to go. You’ve front-loaded all your sincerity, said the equivalent of “nice weather today,” and are now expecting a standing ovation.

Here’s the thing: we say “thank you” not because we’re thankful, but because we are simulating gratitude in the hopes it will increase our personal brand. It’s fine. But it’s also noise.

So, instead of saying:

• “Thanks for your presentation,” say

• “Your presentation was a reality check in the best way. Always appreciate you looping me in.”

Now you’ve got momentum. The email goes somewhere. Sincerity (when it shows up wrapped in context and curiosity) feels unexpected. It gets read. It gets remembered.

And yes, it still counts as professional (arguably, more professional). Because it shows you paid attention.

So. Next time you're writing a thank-you email?

Say anything else first. Then say thank you. Then stop typing.

A startup goes public. The founder rings a bell. CNBC treats it like the moon landing. LinkedIn responds by entering its final, most insufferable form. Nobody mentions the part where the business still isn’t profitable.

Yet, it’s a moment when private ambition becomes public narrative.
Because somehow, against all odds, a group of weirdos with a whiteboard and a group chat made it real enough for everyone else to believe.

And the market replies: “Cool. We believe it too (at $100 a share). For now. Unless rates go up, or growth slows, or something better comes along next week.”

An IPO, like Figma’s, isn’t just a financial event. It’s a cultural one.
A vibes-based money festival.
An act of storytelling that just happens to involve charts and graphs.

And, somehow, it works.

Because under the noise, something real happens:
People start dreaming again.

Not because the financials are great (they’re usually not).
Not because Figma is a Photoshop killer (though, maybe it is).

But because capitalism (despite many of its negatives) still occasionally rewards belief.
Not results. Not revenue. Just the ability to convince a roomful of adults that your thing is worth billions.
And then, magically, it is.

This creates an inspirational feedback loop.
Entrepreneurs feel it. Teenagers notice it.
And somewhere, a kid watches the bell ring and quietly thinks:
“Wait... you can do that?”

Because the IPO isn’t really about money.
It’s about permission.

Permission to try.
Permission to believe your ideas aren’t ridiculous.
Permission to take yourself seriously, before everyone else does.

It’s messy. It’s theatrical. It’s often deeply unprofitable.

But it works.

Because of that, we developed a bias that short writing was bad.

That couldn’t be more wrong.

Writing isn’t about volume. It’s about clarity.

Clarity wins. Every time.

You don’t need more context.

You don’t need more adjectives.

You need to stop smothering your point with explanation.

You become a better writer the day you do two things:

1. Stop trying to sound smart.

2. Write shorter.

Here’s the uncomfortable truth:

Most bad writing isn’t ego.

It’s fear.

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Fear that if you make it short, it won’t sound “smart.”
Fear that if you leave something out, you’ll be misunderstood.

So you hedge. You over-explain. You bury the point under a pile of just-in-case.

And now your reader has to dig through 400 words to find your idea.

But the best writing doesn’t make you dig. It hands you the gold.

• Skip the intro and pleasantries.

• If you need to make 4 points but only 3 are critical, kill the 4th.

• Use half the backstory you think you need.

• Write short. Then make it shorter.

• Use a long sentence to draw in your reader. Then a short one. Then punch.

If it feels uncomfortably simple, you’re probably doing it right.

It’s not oversimplified. It’s just finally clear.

Our brains crave signal, not noise.
When you bury the ask under five lines of context, we skim.
When you open with “just following up…” we’re already gone.

Clear writing respects your reader.
And the fastest way to earn respect is to stop wasting their time.

My whole life, I’ve been asking way fewer questions than I actually wanted to.

Not because I didn’t have them.

Because I didn’t know where to put them.

Because asking “dumb” questions in school gets you judged.

Asking “weird” ones at work gets you sidelined.

So you learn to ration curiosity.

Keep it neat. Keep it relevant. Keep it safe.

Until you forget what it even felt like to be wildly curious.

Then along comes a machine with no ego, no clock, and no limit.

And suddenly you’re up at 2 a.m. asking it everything.

Stuff you were too embarrassed to Google.

Stuff you thought you should already know.

Stuff that doesn’t lead anywhere.

And it hits you:
It’s the first time in years you’ve felt permission to wonder out loud.

That’s what changed. Not the technology.

The frequency of asking.

The questions got weirder. Sharper. Closer to something true.

Because your filter was gone.

And without the fear of being wrong, you go further.

You realize how much you’d been holding back.

Not just what you wanted to ask—

But who you might’ve become if you’d started asking earlier.

So here’s the takeaway:

• Use the tools. Sure.

• But more importantly?

• Use them to rebuild your relationship with curiosity.
  

Don’t wait until you have a perfect question.

Just start asking.

Because the only thing worse than not having answers—is not having the courage to ask the real questions in the first place.

Curiosity isn’t a liability. It’s your edge. Use it like it matters, because it does.

Originality isn’t popular. People say they want it, but what they actually want is familiarity with better lighting.

Beige isn’t your favourite colour. Stop acting like it is.

It's not your fault. We're wired to let someone else go over the waterfall to ensure it's safe for us. It's evolutionary. Originality is risky. It doesn’t come with social proof, metrics, or the safety of “this already worked somewhere else.” It makes people nervous. It makes you look unhinged—until it works. Then it gets repackaged as thought leadership and copy-pasted onto LinkedIn.

You don’t reject original ideas because they’re bad.
You reject them because they’re early.

Weird friends > Safe bets

You edge away from the friend who spirals into tangents but sometimes says something that hits you right in the spine.
You ghost the mildly unhinged. You filter out discomfort.
And with it, you filter out original thought.

You keep a tidy circle.
No awkward moments.
No friction.

Originality doesn’t always arrive in a soothing tone over a weekend coffee.
Sometimes it shows up as the friend who’s never on time and ranting about how wind works.
Sometimes it’s the one with the hot takes you pretend to hate but secretly love.

Or maybe it’s you, before you learned to self-edit.

The truth?
Some people are wrong 70% of the time.
But the other 30%?
That’s where the gold is.

We’re living in a copy-paste era.
Everyone’s cosplaying sanity.

But if you want to grow, build, or just think, you need people who surprise you.
People who say something so wild it short-circuits your brain.

Originality is a high-risk, high-return personality trait.
Most people avoid it.
Most people miss out.

So, if your group chat never disagrees…
If your work calls humans “headcount” and ideas “deliverables”…
And your dinner table lacks spark…

You’re not surrounded.
You’re sedated.

Maybe it’s time to make some weirder friends.

Your dad’s using ChatGPT. Your manager’s using it to write performance reviews. And you? You’re probably using it right now to write an email that sounds enthusiastic but is a little dead inside.

AI has become useful. Like, terrifyingly useful.

AI can replace a lot of things. But not you.

If you ask AI a question, its answer just feels inhuman. You know it was AI-written, but you probably have difficulty articulating why. The vibes are off. That's because humans have emotions, many of which we don’t really understand. And these emotions signal, “This feels wrong.”

We can't describe why we know, but we can feel it. And when we feel it, we know it. And when we know it, we don't trust it.

Ask AI to tell you a joke. It will, but it won’t be funny.

Humour is instinctual.

It’s timing. It’s tone. It’s reading the room and knowing this is the moment to make a joke. It’s knowing which audience gets irony and which doesn’t. Humans know the line and how to use wit to cross it. You know, that thing that’s just a bit over the edge, making something uncomfortably funny?

AI will never know that.

AI doesn’t read a room.

AI has no timing.

AI can’t set up a misdirect.

AI doesn’t feel tension.

Humour—the real, funny—lives in the space between what’s said and what’s meant. It’s built on irony, context, subtlety, and emotion.

AI tries to be emotional as if it’s reading from a manual called 'How to Have Feelings.' Word for word. Monotone.

Humans feel humour. We invent it. We weaponize it. We drown in it. That’s the line AI can’t cross.

AI Knows Everything, But Humans Know Why It Matters.

AI has digested every sentence ever written on the internet.

It’s the most objective tool ever built by the most subjective species on Earth.

It can tell you what comes next in a sentence.

It can’t tell you why you cried at a song.

It can write a wedding toast.

But it can’t write the parts that will have the room choking up as you deliver it.

Because humans don’t just create word sequences. We create meaning.

And meaning isn’t predicted—it’s felt. It’s inconsistent. It’s irrational. It’s messy. It’s dumb. It gives you energy, and it gives you chills.

No matter how many LLMs you train, they will never understand the feeling of listening to a song on repeat, hoping it will drown out the pain of heartbreak.

AI has automated mediocrity. Let it.

Go ahead and give AI the “to whom it may concern” emails, so you have more opportunities to cry/laugh at the inside jokes that only you and your best friend will ever understand.

Don't worry. AI won’t replace you, but if you let it, it will let you be more you more often.

Alright. You’ve read the job description. You’ve played the corporate improv game. You’ve pretended to “drive alignment” while screaming internally.

Now what?

You’ve got two options: 1) survive the system or 2) set fire to the beige carpet and walk out holding your reusable coffee mug like a grenade.

Let’s talk about both.

1. Survival Mode: Playing the Game Without Losing Your Soul

You want the salary. You need health insurance. You’re not ready to flip a desk on a Tuesday. That’s valid. Here’s how to stay in the system without letting it crush your brain like a dry leaf:

Translate Corporate to Human

When someone says: “We need to align on the deliverables across functions to ensure stakeholder satisfaction.”

What they mean is: “Can we just get this done so nobody yells?”

Learn the code. Smile and nod. Cut through the fodder and do the actual thing that’s needed.

Set Soft Boundaries with Hard Energy

You can’t always just say “no”, but you can say:

• “That’s not a priority right now.”

• “Happy to support, but I’ll need to de-prioritize something else.”

• “Can you clarify what success looks like?”

These phrases are like corporate armour: polite, professional, and quietly resistant.

Embrace Strategic Mediocrity

Some systems don’t deserve your best.

Learn where effort goes to die, and stop feeding it. You’re not being lazy—you’re conserving energy for work that matters.

Let mediocrity be your protest art.

Or you can go the other way.

2. Arson Mode: Burn It Down (But Like, Thoughtfully)

Maybe you’re done.

Maybe you’ve realized that no amount of “thought partnership” can make up for the fact that your job is 70% meetings and 30% pretending to care.

Here’s how to burn it down without torching your entire life:

Kill the Dream Job Fantasy

There is no perfect job. There is only less bullshit.

Stop chasing The One. Start identifying environments where you’re allowed to breathe, build, and occasionally say, “This is dumb,” without consequences. Find managers who let you thrive and will back your most ambitious plans. Build an army of supporters quietly and diligently.

Start Saying What You Actually Think

You don’t have to go full scorched-earth. But try this at your next job interview:

“I thrive in environments that value clarity, autonomy, and actual impact—not just pretty words.”

If they flinch, it’s not the right place. If they nod? You just found a crack in the system.

Remember: You’re Not Crazy. The System Is.

It’s not you.

You’re not too intense. Or too ambitious. Or too impatient.

You’re just awake in a system designed to put people to sleep.

You’re allowed to want better. You’re allowed to demand better. And you're allowed to quietly—or loudly—call bullshit on a system that asks for your passion while feeding you PowerPoints.

Your employer doesn't own your creativity. They just rent it. For now.

Here's the real tragedy. You land the job. You sit at the desk. You start the job. And suddenly you realize: Oh. I just type into a computer. I maintain systems I didn’t build. I answer emails about calendars. I optimize processes that don’t want to be optimized.

And if—god forbid—you try to change something? Gasp! To question the way things have always been done? You're not a visionary. You're a risk. A question mark in the manager who prefers status quo to innovation.

We’re expected to be creative—but not inconvenient.
We want to do meaningful work—but not rock the boat.
We’re told to be “forward-thinking”—in a system that still runs on Outlook and fear.

Because the system isn’t built for change.
The system is the system.
And it protects itself.

The System Wants Predictable Outputs, Not Dangerous Ideas.

Organizations want innovation, until innovation means doing something differently.

Because doing something differently is risky. And risk is scary. And scary things threaten good quarterly reports.

So, the system self-selects for “safe” creativity: PowerPoints. Brainstorms. “Blue sky thinking” with minimal intent to execute.

Meanwhile, actual change-makers are quietly labelled “difficult” and someone who causes their manager more work.

Translation: Change threatens the comfort of the system.

So why does the bullshit persist?

• Because it works just well enough to keep the big machine flowing.

• Because it protects power.

• Because it keeps the corporation humming—predictably, quietly, expensively.

But here’s the thing: systems don’t change themselves. People do.

So yeah, the job description is vague on purpose. The meetings are bloated on purpose. The structure is designed to absorb your ambition and spit out slide decks.

But some of us are still out here—pushing, questioning, building. Not because it's easy, but because pretending this is normal is soul rot. If you’ve ever felt like you’re the only one who sees the absurdity, you’re not. And if enough of us keep refusing to play dead inside, maybe—just maybe—the system won’t win.

Now?

It's thesaurus-fuelled LinkedIn slop written by a mid-level manager who, on more than one occasion, has earnestly used the term “collaborative enhancement."

Foster cross-functional relationships.
Demonstrate stakeholder empathy while operationalizing scalable innovation.

What the fuck does any of that mean?

Here's what everyone knows but no one says: it doesn’t mean anything. It’s a linguistic smoke bomb. And we’ve all inhaled the fumes.

We’re drowning in corporate fodder, strung along by bullet points that sound like they were generated by an LLM trained on “thought leaders.”

And yet, we nod. We apply. We accept.
Because what choice do we have?

Imagine this: You're reading a job ad. It says, “Must have strong attention to detail, a positive attitude, and excellent people skills.”

Cool. Earth-shattering stuff.

Who’s reading that and saying, “Ah, you know what? I was going to apply, but I’m actually quite sloppy with a flair for the antisocial. Not for me.”

It’s not a filter. It’s fluff.

Why is it like this?

Because this didn’t just happen.

It’s not random.

It’s engineered.

Ambiguity is a Feature, Not a Bug

If a job is clearly defined, you can measure success.

If success is measurable, you can demonstrate value.

If you can demonstrate value, you can ask for more money.

So, you get job descriptions full of abstraction:

“You’ll own stakeholder engagement and drive alignment across cross-functional teams.”

What does that mean? No one knows. And because no one knows, no one can say you’re not doing it. Or that you are. And that’s the point.

Vagueness becomes safety. You can't fail at a job that’s impossible to define. And you can’t challenge the hierarchy when everyone’s too busy decoding their own role.