"Selfishness Wears a Suit Now, But It Still Smells Like Rot"

 I’ve been thinking a lot lately—too much, probably—about the shape of selfishness in this world. How it dresses itself up in new language: self-care, boundaries, ambition. Now don’t get me wrong—I believe in those things. Hell, I need those things. But there’s a difference between protecting your peace and constructing a fortress out of your own ego, locking everyone else out while pretending you’re just “focusing on your growth.”

There’s no sympathy in selfishness. That’s the truth I keep circling, no matter how I try to dress it up. It's not a gentle line. It doesn’t leave room for negotiation or sugar. It's just true—the kind of truth that sits heavy in your stomach, like undercooked meat or a word you can’t take back.

I’ve watched people I care about vanish behind the curtain of their own wants. No “how are yous,” no reciprocity—just extraction. They take and take until the well’s dry, and then they complain about the dust. And when you finally pull back, when you stop offering your heart like it's on tap, they act like you’re the villain. Sympathy doesn’t survive long in that environment. It's a flower trying to bloom in a room with no air.

I think that’s the part that stings the most—it’s not even cruelty that does the damage. It’s the complete absence of consideration. That subtle but deliberate decision to care less because it’s easier. Because empathy requires effort and self-awareness, and God forbid people sit still long enough to feel anything beyond their own needs.

And yet—I get it. I really do. We’re all bleeding in some way. Everyone’s fighting something. But pain doesn't give us a free pass to make others collateral damage. I’ve worn that mask before. I’ve let my own wounds justify a coldness I later regretted. I’ve called it “being real” when it was just me hiding. But if I’ve learned anything worth keeping, it’s this:

If your survival requires the starvation of everyone around you, you’re not surviving. You’re consuming.

I don’t want to be a consumer. I don’t want to be someone who takes more than he gives and justifies it with trauma and timing. I’ve seen what that path leads to. It’s lonely. Hollow. You end up the king of nothing, sitting on a throne made of other people’s patience.

So I’m trying. Trying to stay generous. Trying to stay open. Even when it hurts. Even when the world tells me it’s smarter to build walls and keep my love locked in a vault.

Because here’s the thing: selfishness might protect you, but it never fulfills you. It’s insulation, not warmth. And I’m not looking to survive in a vacuum. I want connection. I want meaning. I want to give a damn and have it returned—not out of obligation, but because that’s what human beings do when they remember they’re not the only ones here.

I don’t know. Maybe it’s idealistic. Maybe it’s old-fashioned. But I’d rather be the fool who kept caring too much than the cynic who burned every bridge just to stay comfortable.

Let them call it weakness.

I'll call it honor.

—Thadd