Recession, unemployment, health insurance, lead-laced toothpaste, a war on two fronts, banks collapsing. Are you hyperventilating yet? These are rough times, friends. And I call you friends in the sharing, consoling way, not in the John McCain, I’m-sizing-up-your-kidneys-for-my-future-use “my friends” way. I sincerely feel 
sorry that everyone is suffering so badly, even though a lot of the Americans who have been hit the hardest are still leagues better off than I am. I recently read an article in Time magazine about “The New Frugality,” where a married couple lamented that they are no longer going on their bi-yearly vacations or drinking wine. Bitches, I grew up on welfare and food stamps. I ride the bus, work two jobs, eat $3 frozen lunches, and get $5 haircuts that leave me looking like a 19th-century street urchin. Don’t talk to me about your cancelled ski trips. I don’t even know what a “ski” is. Is it a kind of cheese? A dog? I don’t know, because I went to public school.
But I digress from consoling. In times like these, it’s natural to feel lost, in need of a gentle voice to direct you down the right path. For me, that voice is Quantum Leap’s Dr. Sam Beckett. Let me be your Sam, let me show you the path. This is the right way, friends: whatever you do, however you feel, for the love of God, do not listen to a guiding voice.
Advice is itself a vice. Stop listening to it. I’ll even go a step further: tell those people to mind their own beeswax. I’m talking about your well-meaning loved ones, the ones who pile on the fortune-cookie proverbs like there’s no tomorrow for fortune cookies. (I kind of wish there wasn't; their shape makes me...uncomfortable.) We have forgotten that just because someone has an opinion about our lives—even someone who cares about us—doesn’t mean that we have to give a shit. Take the advice of one of my friends from college: “Close your ears as you would your eyes.”
The only people who are comfortable with rejecting their loved ones’ advice are drug addicts and prostitutes and, well, other people who probably could use some Maury Povich-ing. But most of us sit there and take it, murmuring, “I know, I know, you’re right” in response to pretty much whatever dumbass thing they say. And then we spend all our time worrying over whether we’re running our lives right, when the worst thing we’re probably doing is being silly and self-centered.
I should know. I am beyond doormat. I am some kind of power-doormat that licks your shoes clean. Case in point: when people accuse of me apologizing too much, and they do, I apologize for it. The other day, a customer at my low-end retail job squealed, "Ooo! I love your dimples!" and then poked me in the face. (And this was not a loving poke, which come to think of it, might have been worse; no, this was a stubby-fingered jab of a poke.) I once continued my AOL service for four unnecessary, unused months because I was afraid to call the cancellation department. I am the whipped one in the relationship. My favorite food is waffles—well, no, it's not, but I can't decide; what do you want my favorite food to be?
I won't say that I never get my way, but I will say this: I am a Grade-A, diamond-certified, 100% wimp.
Who’s to blame for our constant need for reassurances? Part of it must go to the self-help industry. Someday, someone will have to explain to me how constantly questioning one's self-fulfillment is supposed to make a person happy. Or how obsessing and talking ad nauseum about a romantic relationship is supposed to improve it. And where exactly does the “self” part enter into the equation? Does it only stop being “self”-help when Richard Simmons wrestles that hamburger out of your hand or Dr. Laura performs a flying leap cock-block? Well, I guess in that case I would choose self-help, too.
You may be saying to yourself, "Kim, you are giving advice here. And here, and here. What the hey, man?" (And if that was your exact wording, then I want to high-five you so hard.) There is a very good reason for my apparent hypocrisy: I am smarter than everyone else.
Okay, no, but I am better equipped than most of the people trying to sell you their sassy wisdom and lame acronyms. (Keep It Simple, Stupid! Oh, that’s just adorable. How about, Get Your Head Out Of Your Ass, Asshole! GYHOOYAA. It…okay, it may need some fine-tuning.) Oprah lives in a cloud castle made of dreams and cashmere sweaters and, I guess, clouds. Dr. Phil is 30% moustache. He’s Just Not That Into You assumes that I am made of lipstick and you-go-girls, while Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus assumes that I am all cuddles and crying (when in fact, I am made of store-brand Oreos and Law and Order trivia). "Savage Love" will tell you to sleep with everyone, "Dear Abbey" will tell you to sleep with no one. My advice is simpler: sleep. Naps freaking rule.
Which brings me to my next point: we need to stop telling other people what to do all the time, too. When we give unsolicited advice to someone, all we’re saying is that we think we know how to run their lives better than they do. And society’s least capable people aren’t just the most likely to need advice; they’re also the most likely to give it. Unemployed rednecks are waxing political from their barstools. 
Anorexic bimbos are giving lectures on diet and clean living. Rich people are teaching us how to tighten our belts, homophobic NRA-members are preaching morality, and fake-tanned sluts are telling us how to feel empowered. We are inveterate backseat drivers.
It’s easy to keep your mouth shut most of the time, you say, but what about if someone you care about is doing something destructive? Believe it or not, we don't live in an Ayn Rand-inspired dystopic future where "I" is replaced by "We" and everyone has names like Brotherhood-4658. In the real world, you're a separate person. Sure, your friend probably shouldn't date that guy with mouth sores, a motorcycle, and an unhealthy Metallica fixation, but from her perspective, you probably shouldn't be such a nosy bitch. Maybe you know for absolute fact that if your cousin doesn't stop wasting all his money on booze and partying, he's going to end up living on your couch for four months. But he knows that you can't put a 401(k) in a bong, and you can't put a price on totally rocking. You see? Equally relevant.
What I'm saying is that as much as we all love to tell people what to do, we also all love to make terrible, irreversible decisions. It is a delicate balance. So, next time a loved one starts in with, "I know you don't want to hear this, but—" remember that you are allowed to respond, "Nope. See ya!" It may bite you in the ass when you get out of rehab with no couch to crash on, or when you need to bury a hooker's body and for the life of you can't find a shovel. But, hey. Silence is golden, but telling someone to shut their dang pie-hole? Priceless.
click your dang pie-hole to go back to BRAINS
