I woke up ready to be useful,
which for me usually means
I didn’t sleep well
and I’m trying to convert that
into a personality.
I made coffee and opened my phone
like it was a medical chart
I was afraid to read,
except the patient was humanity
and the prognosis was
“lol.”
First thing I did was check
who needed correcting.
I found them immediately—
they were everywhere,
waiting like mosquitoes
with opinions.
A guy with a flag in his profile photo
posted something about “common sense”
and “biological reality”
and “back in my day,”
which I assume was the Bronze Age.
I typed a reply so measured, so patient,
it could’ve been used in a hostage negotiation.
I cited a study.
I used full sentences.
I didn’t call him a dumbass
until the very end,
where I spelled it
d-u-m-b-a-s-s
like a prayer.
He replied in three seconds
with a laughing emoji
and a misspelling.
So that was my first victory.
Then I reposted a social justice meme—
a pastel square with a quote
attributed to someone famous
who probably never said it,
but it sounded correct
and that’s what matters now.
I added: Please read.
As if people read.
As if I read, honestly,
beyond the first line
and whatever made my blood
do that little fizzing thing
like I’d shaken the bottle
and put the cap back on.
By noon I’d become
a full-time emergency responder
to strangers’ bad takes.
I had this feeling like
if I didn’t show up,
if I didn’t say something,
the world would tilt
and slide off its table.
So I kept showing up.
I kept saying something.
I corrected misinformation
from a woman whose profile picture
was a sunflower in a mason jar.
I explained nuance
to a man who calls himself
“PatriotWolf1776.”
I argued with a teenager
who told me to “cope.”
I tried to be kind
to someone who had set kindness on fire
and was waving it around
to prove a point.
Every time I hit “Post”
I felt a tiny relief,
like I’d pushed a boulder
one inch uphill.
Then the boulder
rolled right back over me
and asked me for sources.
Around two,
I decided I needed to escalate.
I wasn’t just going to comment.
I was going to organize.
I created a Facebook event:
SOCIAL MEDIA SIT-IN
We will not be silent.
We will flood the comments.
We will stay present.
We will hold space.
I made a banner image
that looked like a protest poster
made by someone
who owns a printer
and sadness.
I invited everyone.
Old coworkers.
College friends.
People I once dated
who still watch my stories
like I’m a documentary
about regret.
Within an hour
I had three “Going”
and fourteen “Interested,”
which is the official Facebook category
for I support you spiritually
and please do not ask me to do anything.
At four o’clock
I showed up to my own sit-in
like a guy arriving early
to his own surprise party
and finding the apartment empty.
I posted the first comment.
Then another.
Then a third,
because I’m nothing
if not committed
to awkward silence.
I waited.
No one came.
Not even the “Interested” people,
who apparently couldn’t make it
because they were busy
being conceptually against injustice
from bed.
My sister liked one post
and typed: “So true!”
which was sweet
and also devastating.
I stared at the screen
and watched the algorithm
do what it does:
float the loudest nonsense
to the top
like oil in a puddle.
I thought about the hours
I’d spent typing little fists
into the ether.
How my hands hurt
and my eyes burned
and I’d aged five years
in comment sections
that didn’t even remember my name.
I thought about how easy it is
to confuse motion
with movement.
How a person can spend
a whole day
fighting for justice
and still not stand up
even once.
By evening
I felt hollowed out,
like I’d shouted into a canyon
and the canyon had shouted back
a notification:
Your post has been flagged
for using the word “asshole.”
I laughed,
because what else do you do
when the system has manners
but no mercy.
I put the phone down
and the room got quiet,
the real kind of quiet—
not the quiet that’s waiting
for another outrage
to refresh.
Outside, the world was still there,
unmoved by my paragraphs,
uncancelled, uncorrected,
continuing to be itself
with a calm confidence
that made my heroism
look like a hobby.
I stood at the window
feeling the last little sparks
of righteous energy
go out in my chest
one by one.
Then, like a professional,
like a veteran of the cause,
like a man who knows
exactly how this ends,
I picked the phone back up
to see if anyone had liked my comment.
