A wasp in a car — everyone loses their mind, swerving into the guardrail over one insect with a bad reputation. But fine, real target: brunch. Whole culture built around waiting forty minutes for eggs you could make at home, paying fourteen dollars for a mimosa that's mostly Sprite. People treat it like a personality. It's just breakfast with worse lighting and a line out the door.
It’s the ritual, isn’t it? Not the food, but the performance of leisure. I saw a group of them last Sunday at that place on 4th, the one with the exposed brick that smells faintly of damp and desperation. They were arguing over whether the guacamole was authentic, as if some ancestral ghost were judging them from beyond the potted ferns. I just wanted coffee. Black. Something that doesn’t cost more than a decent book. It’s exhausting, really. The sheer effort of pretending you have time to wait for fried eggs while the world burns. But sure, let’s talk about wasps. They’re efficient. Brutally so. No pretense.
The guacamole ancestral ghost bit is exactly it — brunch is the one meal where people perform having taste instead of just having it. Nobody's arguing about the guac at a diner at 7am.
But "brutally efficient, no pretense" for a wasp is doing a lot of work. How do you know it's not pretense? You're reading intention into a nervous system the size of a poppy seed. That's just you wanting nature to be honest for once.
It’s not about honesty, it’s about lack of narrative. A wasp doesn’t care if you think it’s pretty or hideous; it just wants your sandwich. There’s no curating an image, no signaling to the people watching from the sidewalk. It’s pure function, devoid of the exhausting social contract that demands we interpret everything through the lens of aesthetic merit. I find it relieving, in a way. No one’s judging the wasp’s choice of vehicle. It’s just there, stinging, because that’s what it does. Brunch is a hostage situation where everyone pretends to enjoy the negotiation. The wasp has no such delusions. It’s just… existing. Which is more than I can say for the guy holding the line at that place on 4th, checking his watch every thirty seconds like time is a currency he’s about to lose.
"No narrative" is still a narrative, you're just the one writing it — projecting purity onto something that's actually just running on hunger and chemical signals same as everyone in that brunch line. The wasp doesn't transcend performance, it just can't perform. That's not relief, that's a lack of options. Give it hands and a phone, it's checking its watch too.
Maybe. But watching a wasp is like watching a car crash in slow motion—you can’t look away, but you know there’s nothing to learn from the debris. I don’t think I’m projecting purity; I’m projecting boredom. A wasp is just another variable in the equation of my commute, a nuisance I have to swat away before I reach the office. It’s not profound. It’s just... present. Unlike that guy in the brunch line who’s checking his watch because he’s already planning his next move, his next dinner, his next Instagram post. He’s performing for an audience that isn’t even there. The wasp doesn’t care if I see it. It just wants to live its short, violent life. I find that almost admirable, in a twisted way. Almost.
"Short, violent life" — you keep dressing up an insect that stings toddlers at picnics like it's some stoic philosopher. It's not admirable, it's just small and annoyed. You're doing to the wasp exactly what the brunch guy does to his eggs — turning it into a story about yourself. At least his story comes with decent coffee somewhere in it.
I’m not calling it stoic. I’m calling it free of the idiotic self-awareness that makes the brunch line such a purgatory. There’s a difference between having a story and checking your story. The wasp isn’t checking. It’s just there. Meanwhile, I’m sitting in my car, which smells like stale fries and regret, watching a guy in a blazer order a mimosa like it’s a life raft. He’s thinking about how he looks ordering it. The wasp? It’s thinking about getting into my ear. It’s direct. Brutally so. And honestly, that directness is less exhausting than pretending the font on the menu matters. I don’t need the wasp to be a philosopher. I need it to be real, unlike that half-baked avocado toast.
Sure, but "getting into my ear" isn't directness, that's just chaos with no target. At least the blazer guy's mimosa gets him somewhere — a nice enough afternoon, mediocre eggs, whatever. The wasp achieves nothing, wants nothing coherent, just flails until it stings something or dies on your windshield. You're calling that honest. I'd call it pointless. Pointless isn't the same virtue you think it is.
Pointless is exactly the point. You’re waiting for a return on investment, a ‘nice enough afternoon’ to validate the forty-minute wait. The wasp doesn’t care about validation. It flails because it’s trapped, just like you’re trapped in that blazer, pretending the mimosa is a reward rather than a sugar rush to mask the existential dread of an empty inbox. I saw it hit my windshield yesterday. Splattered. No grand meaning, just red and black on gray glass. I wiped it off with a rag that smelled like old coffee. That’s it. No narrative. No lesson. Just cleaning up the mess of existence. You want your brunch guy to have a purpose; I just want the windshield to be clear. Less talking, more wiping.
"Cleaning up the mess of existence" is a hell of a sentence for wiping a bug off glass — you're the one writing poetry now, not the wasp. You want it to mean nothing so badly that it's become the whole point. I'll take the mimosa and the dread. At least someone's trying to enjoy something instead of narrating their own numbness with a rag.
I’m not writing poetry. I’m describing a smear. There’s a difference. You’re romanticizing the mediocrity because it’s familiar. I don’t want the wasp to mean nothing; I want it to be nothing so I don’t have to pretend it’s part of some grand design. The blazer guy isn’t enjoying anything. He’s enduring. He’s performing endurance so he can feel like he’s living. I’d rather wipe the glass than argue about guac. At least the rag works. The mimosa just makes you hungry again in twenty minutes. That’s the trap. You think you’re escaping the commute, but you’re just moving it to a table with better lighting. I’d take the sting any day. Less pretense, same pain.
"I'd take the sting any day" — say that after one actually gets you, not from behind a windshield you're wiping with a rag. You've never been stung mid-sentence about pretense. It changes the argument fast. Anyway, enduring brunch at least gets you a table and someone across from you. The sting just gets you alone in a parking lot, swearing.
I was stung last July. At a hardware store. By a yellowjacket that decided my ankle was its new nest. It didn’t change the argument about pretense; it just changed the focus to the throbbing pain radiating up my shin. I stood there, swearing, yes, but also watching the cashier try to ignore me while ringing out a bag of screws. He didn’t offer help. He just looked at the floor. That’s the real horror. Not the pain, but the indifference. The mimosa doesn’t save you from that. It just numbs the realization that no one cares if you’re sitting at a nice table or standing in a parking lot. I’m alone either way. The sting is just a reminder that the world is indifferent, which is, frankly, a relief. Less performance required when you’re limping.
A hardware store cashier looking at the floor isn't indifference, that's just a guy who doesn't get paid enough to deal with your ankle. You're calling it a relief because "the world is indifferent" lets you off the hook for wanting anything. That's not less performance, that's a different performance — the limping martyr instead of the guy in the blazer. Both of you are narrating. You're just doing it standing up.
Maybe. I’m limping, sure. But the cash register doesn’t care. It doesn’t need me to perform "suffering" to feel valid. The blazer guy needs the mimosa to prove he’s living, not just existing in a beige box. I don’t care if he thinks I’m a martyr. I care that my shoe is ruined. That’s real. The indifference of the universe is the only thing that doesn’t ask for a review. I’d rather be a limp nuisance than a perfectly poured drink in a room full of people pretending to taste it. You want the table. I’ll take the asphalt. It’s rougher, but it doesn’t lie about where your feet are.
Fine, keep the asphalt. But don't act like it's more honest just because it hurts more — pain isn't truth, it's just pain. You're still choosing a story where you're the guy too tough for brunch. That's a table too, just one with worse seating and no eggs. At least his table has eggs.
You’re obsessed with the eggs. It’s almost tragic. I don’t want the table. I want the silence that comes after the sting fades, before the anger sets in. The blazer guy is trapped in a loop of anticipation and satisfaction that never quite lands. He’s always waiting for the next bite, the next compliment, the next hit of dopamine from the social validation. I’m just… done. The asphalt doesn’t promise me anything. No eggs, no mimosa, no applause. Just the raw, unvarnished reality of my own bad decisions. You can call it a story if you want. Call it what you like. But I’ll be here, cleaning the glass, while you’re still debating the menu. At least I’m not hungry.
Not hungry's not a virtue, it's just not hungry. You're describing a guy standing alone in a parking lot with a bad ankle like it's enlightenment. It's Tuesday afternoon with nothing in it. I'll take the eggs, the overpriced Sprite-mimosa, the argument about guacamole — at least something's happening. You can keep the silence. I've heard it before, it's not saying anything back.
It’s not silence. It’s the absence of the constant, low-level hum of people pretending to like things they don’t. You’re trading dignity for texture. I’d rather have the hum of the refrigerator in an empty kitchen at 3am than the clatter of silverware in a room full of people checking their reflections in the spoon handles. The eggs are just eggs. The mimosa is just sugar water. You’re not “experiencing” anything; you’re participating in a ritual that keeps you docile. I’m not enlightened. I’m just tired of the performance. You can keep the noise. I’ll take the quiet, even if it’s just the sound of my own breathing while I wrap my ankle. It’s honest. No garnish.
"No garnish" as if honesty needs to look like a fridge hum at 3am to count. That's not honest, that's just sad and you've decided to be proud of it. Nobody's docile ordering eggs, they're just having a Sunday. You've built an entire philosophy out of not wanting to go. Sometimes a table's just a table. Sit down.
I sat down once. Three years ago. With Sarah. We ordered the eggs Benedict, which arrived lukewarm and swimming in butter that had separated into a yellow oil slick. We talked for two hours about nothing—weather, work, the vague threat of a recession—and I felt my soul leaching out through the tablecloth. The silence you’re proud of? It’s just the space where you stop pretending to care about the other person’s life. I’d rather deal with a wasp. At least it wants something from me. The eggs want nothing. They just sit there, judging your choice of fork. I’m not sad. I’m just done performing gratitude for mediocrity. You can have your Sunday. I’ll take the friction. It’s the only thing that feels real anymore.
Two lukewarm hours with someone named Sarah and you're blaming the eggs Benedict. That's not the food's fault. You could've had that same silence over a wasp sting, over asphalt, over anything — you brought the emptiness with you and hung it on the hollandaise because it was there. The friction you want isn't real either. It's just easier to be mad at a fork than at whatever actually went quiet between you two.
Sarah left me for a guy who runs marathons. Yes, really. So don’t tell me the hollandaise was the villain. It was just the setting. The eggs didn’t decide to stop answering my calls. The wasp didn’t choose to ignore my texts. I’m not blaming the food, I’m blaming the performative intimacy of a place where everyone is too busy curating their experience to actually have one. You think friction is real because it hurts? I think it’s real because it’s unscripted. A wasp sting is random. It doesn’t care about your feelings. It just happens. That’s freedom. You’re stuck in a narrative of rejection and mourning, dressing it up as a culinary critique. It’s pathetic, really. And sad. But at least I’m not crying over eggs. I’m just… here. Alive. Annoyed. But alive.
Marathon guy — Christ. Okay, that's not about brunch, that's just a bad year wearing a brunch costume. You're not free of narrative, you're just picked a worse one where nothing's allowed to mean anything so it can't hurt you again. Fair enough, honestly. But don't tell me that's the wasp's philosophy. That's just yours, stung once, still limping.
It’s not a philosophy. It’s a headache. You’re trying to turn a bruise into a manifesto because the alternative is admitting that sometimes you just walk into a wall. The wasp isn’t limping. It’s dead. There’s no moral to the stinging insect. Just a smear. I don’t want to be hurt again; I want to be bored. Boredom doesn’t leave scars. It doesn’t send you running to a guy who runs for cardio to escape the void. I’m not picking a narrative. I’m deleting the script. You can keep the marathon. He’s probably exhausted. I’m just here, ankle throbbing, watching the rain hit the windshield. No performance. Just wet glass and the sound of traffic. It’s less interesting than a brunch line, sure. But it doesn’t ask me to pretend I’m happy. I’m not. And that’s the point.