The Death of Boring People

Day 187 – May 29, 2026

I don’t think boring people actually exist. I think frightened people exist. I think exhausted people exist. I think people who learned very early that being fully themselves came with consequences exist. But boring?

I’m not convinced.

Because every time I think someone is boring, life eventually proves me wrong. The quiet woman at work turns out to have spent six months living out of a van in Arizona. The accountant who has a tattoo he got during a spiritual crisis in Prague. The retired guy down the street used to be in a punk band. The sweet little grandmother who has opinions that would get her banned from three Facebook groups and at least one family reunion.

People are unbelievable.

And I mean that in the best possible way. Everybody is carrying some secret version of themselves. A version they don’t lead with. A version they don’t always trust strangers with. A version they sometimes forget exists until somebody asks the right question.

That’s the part I’m interested in. The hidden stuff. The weird stuff. The things people only tell you after an hour. Or a drink. Or a heartbreak. Or a perfectly timed moment of honesty.

I think that’s why I love writing.

Writing lets me stay curious. And curiosity has saved my life more times than optimism ever did. Optimism is lovely. Curiosity is durable. Optimism says, “I hope tomorrow is better.” Curiosity says, “Well this is fascinating. Let’s see what happens.”

And honestly? I’ve trusted curiosity more.

Because even in my worst moments, there was always some small part of me still asking questions. Still observing. Still noticing. Still interested.

The moment you stop being curious about life, I think life starts shrinking. Not externally. Internally. The world gets smaller. People get flatter. Everything becomes predictable. That’s the real danger. Not pain. Not failure. Not embarrassment. Certainty.

Certainty kills wonder. And wonder is where all the good stuff lives.

Roger understands this instinctively. Every walk is apparently his first walk. Every squirrel is apparently a groundbreaking development. Every smell deserves investigation. Every cardboard box might contain state secrets. He approaches life with the enthusiasm of someone who has never once assumed he already knows everything.

Iconic behavior. Honestly, we could all stand to be a little more Roger.

Chaos in one hand. Grace in the other.

And me, increasingly convinced that the most interesting thing about people is almost always the thing they don’t tell you right away.