Fine Art

"How are you?"
"I'm fine, thanks! And you?"
Smile. Nod. Repeat.
I've got this choreography down to muscle memory—
a one-woman show that's been running for decades,
sold out every night, standing room only
in the theater of Please Don't Make This Awkward.

My face is a hostage negotiator,
always calm, always reasonable,
talking down the situation before anyone notices
there's a situation at all.
Meanwhile, inside, it's a fucking crime scene—
yellow tape, chalk outlines, the works.
But sure, I'm fine.

You want to know how I'm doing?
Picture a building on fire
with a cheerful "OPEN" sign still blinking in the window.
That's me. Come on in! Everything's great!
Ignore the smoke, the screaming,
the way the foundation is actively crumbling.
Can I get you some coffee?

I learned this early.
No one actually wants the real answer.
They want the verbal equivalent of elevator music—
pleasant, forgettable, requiring nothing of them.
So I became a master of the soft-shoe shuffle,
the emotional sleight of hand,
the disappearing act where I vanish
and leave behind a hologram that says
"I'm good! Just tired! You know how it is!"

My mother taught me this.
Her mother taught her.
It's a family heirloom, this swallowing of swords,
this smiling through the blood in your teeth.
Keep walking. Keep going. Don't make a fuss.
As if stopping were a moral failure,
as if rest were a character flaw,
as if acknowledging pain were
some kind of social terrorism.

So I walk.
God, do I walk.
I walk on broken legs and call it a little stiff.
I walk through migraines that could split continents
and say "I'm just a bit under the weather."
I walk while my insides are staging a coup,
organs filing formal complaints,
nerves submitting their two weeks' notice,
and I just keep fucking walking
because that's what we do, isn't it?

The absurdity is almost beautiful:
I'm a wind-up toy with a frozen smile,
marching straight off the cliff
while waving enthusiastically at passersby.
Don't mind me! Just enjoying the view!
The view is oblivion, but hey,
at least I'm being positive about it.

Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I stopped.
If I just... didn't.
Didn't smile. Didn't say "I'm fine."
Didn't perform the elaborate kabuki theater
of functional adulthood.
But then I remember
I don't actually know how to stop.
The mechanism is broken.
Or maybe it's working exactly as designed—
a perpetual motion machine of polite suffering,
powered by generational trauma
and the fear of being inconvenient.

So here I am.
Still walking.
Still smiling.
Still fine, thanks for asking.
The building's still burning,
the crime scene's still fresh,
and I'm still the hostage negotiator
talking everyone down from the ledge
while standing on it myself.

Don’t worry about me.
I'm fine.

I've always been fine.

I'll die fine, probably—
apologizing to the paramedics
for the inconvenience,
smiling at the light at the end of the tunnel,
asking it how its day is going.

Because that's what I was taught.

Keep walking.
Keep smiling.
Keep being okay
even when okay
is just another word
for slowly disappearing
while everyone watches
and sees nothing at all.

Curtain call. Standing ovation.
Same time tomorrow.
I'll be fine.

Stay Weird. Love You. Mean It.

Image created with Reve