Just Finish The Fucking Sentence
JUST FINISH THE FUCKING SENTENCE
Or: The Dungeon, the Haus, and the Ancient Human Desire to Know What the Fuck Is Going On
By Jerry “The Ankle-Biter” Silverhand
There is a special kind of exhaustion that comes from not knowing.
Not bad news.
Not rejection.
Not being told no.
Just...
Nothing.
A sentence that somebody started two weeks ago and apparently wandered away from before reaching the fucking period.
And lately I have discovered something about myself:
I hate unfinished sentences.
Not because I require good news.
Not because the universe is obligated to accommodate me.
Not because every answer needs to arrive wrapped in bubble wrap with a complimentary juice box.
I just need the rest of the fucking sentence.
Tell me what's happening.
Then I can do something.
Anything.
Because Mr. Germlin can operate under remarkably stupid conditions.
But he requires conditions.
Let Us Begin Somewhere Profoundly Stupid
The Dungeon.
That's what we're calling it.
The Dungeon is a strange digital establishment where allegedly compatible adults wander through poorly illuminated corridors hoping to encounter companionship, conversation, recreational foolishness, or at minimum another human being capable of completing a thought.
Occasionally this happens.
Other times:
"Open this treasure chest."
No.
"How about this treasure chest?"
No.
"This one?"
Still no.
"But this one is special..."
MA'AM.
At some point I began feeling like a raccoon standing in front of a vending machine while somebody repeatedly slapped the illuminated button.
PUSH BUTTON.
No.
PUSH BUTTON AGAIN.
Still no.
PERHAPS BUTTON DID NOT UNDERSTAND. PUSH HARDER.
No, motherfucker.
The button understands perfectly.
The button has reviewed your request.
The button has consulted Treasury.
The button has completed a comprehensive financial-impact assessment.
The button has convened an emergency meeting with Jerry.
Jerry voted no.
The motion has failed.
The Gremlin Treasury respectfully declines to release six-ish dollars for whatever enchanted artifact currently resides inside your suspicious treasure chest.
Please remove your hands from the vending machine.
BUT WHY?
This happened enough that eventually I stopped wondering what was happening.
I understood what was happening.
A thing appeared.
The thing cost money.
I was encouraged to purchase the thing.
I declined.
Then another thing appeared.
What I didn't understand was:
Why?
Why are we doing this?
Why does an otherwise normal conversation keep encountering the Great Tollbooth of Intimacy?
Why are you so invested in whether I open the chest?
Does something happen?
Is there a metric?
Do points appear?
Does a tiny casino bell ring somewhere?
Does an accountant leap from beneath a desk and scream:
CUSTOMER ENGAGEMENT!
Does a manager descend from the ceiling on a rope and award you a commemorative coupon?
Does Jerry receive a peppercorn?
Because if Jerry receives a peppercorn, we may need to reopen negotiations.
Jerry?
No?
All right.
WHAT DOES THE BUTTON DO?
Eventually, I asked one of the Dungeon residents.
Not angrily.
Not accusingly.
Just:
Why?
Why do you keep asking me to open these things?
And finally I got something enormously valuable.
Not another chest.
Not another sales pitch.
Not another:
"But this one is really special."
An explanation.
Her understanding was that certain activity helped her remain active within the Dungeon.
Now, I did not receive the Dungeon Master's sacred technical manual.
I don't know how its machinery actually calculates activity.
I don't know what contributes to whatever internal system exists behind the walls.
I don't know whether purchasing a particular treasure chest specifically affects anything.
And frankly, I don't particularly care.
Because for the first time I had enough context to understand why she was asking.
And something remarkable happened.
My answer remained:
No.
Beautiful.
Glorious.
Simple.
No.
I still wasn't opening every chest.
I still wasn't purchasing every enchanted portrait.
The Gremlin Treasury remained protected by the ancient economic doctrine known as:
ACT BROKE.
But suddenly I wasn't fighting a shadow.
I understood the behavior.
I understood the request.
And understanding the request did not require agreeing to it.
Somebody had finally:
FINISHED THE FUCKING SENTENCE.
Meanwhile, Across Town...
There existed another dungeon.
A considerably less entertaining one.
Haus Morgenrot.
At the time this was originally written, Mr. Germlin had spent roughly two weeks sitting at home.
Not working.
Not earning his normal hours.
Not being definitively told his employment had ended.
Not being given a return date.
Just...
waiting.
And waiting sounds harmless until waiting begins appearing on your paycheck.
Waiting doesn't look dramatic.
Nobody necessarily screams.
Nobody summons security.
Nobody dramatically throws your belongings into a cardboard box while a violin plays in the lobby.
Nobody releases the hounds.
The institution simply stops finishing its sentences.
"We're investigating—"
And?
"We'll let you know—"
When?
"You're still employed—"
Then when do I work?
"You haven't been terminated—"
Then what exactly am I supposed to do?
FINISH.
THE.
SENTENCE.
NO IS ACTUALLY A VERY USEFUL WORD
Here's the weird thing.
I can work with no.
No is useful.
No has edges.
No tells me where the wall is.
No means:
This road ends here.
Fine.
Turn around.
Find another road.
I can work with yes.
Yes means:
Report here.
Show up at this time.
Wear this.
Do that.
Collect paycheck.
Go home.
Beautiful.
Boring.
Functional.
I can even work with:
You're fired.
Would I enjoy hearing it?
Of course fucking not.
That's not exactly something you frame and hang over the fireplace.
But you know what I can do approximately thirty seconds after receiving that answer?
PLAN.
Update the résumé.
Push harder on applications.
Recalculate the budget.
Figure out transportation.
Figure out what gets paid first.
Figure out what gets delayed.
Figure out what the next mission is.
Because Mr. Germlin has a standing doctrine:
When the battlefield changes, change the mission.
But there is one tiny logistical problem.
I CANNOT CHANGE THE MISSION IF NOBODY WILL TELL ME WHAT FUCKING BATTLEFIELD I'M STANDING ON.
Jerry, put that in the minutes.
Underline it.
No, Jerry.
Do not eat the minutes.
Those are official records.
Limbo Charges Admission
That's the cruelty of limbo.
It doesn't necessarily punch you once.
It quietly charges admission every day.
Another day without hours.
Another day without certainty.
Another day staring at your finances wondering whether you should behave like somebody temporarily off work or somebody who has effectively lost his job.
Meanwhile, the calendar keeps moving.
The bills do not enter investigative suspension.
Transportation does not announce:
"We understand Haus Morgenrot has not completed its internal process. Today's travel will therefore be complimentary."
The grocery store does not accept:
PENDING ADMINISTRATIVE REVIEW
at checkout.
Rent cannot be paid in:
PLEASE STAND BY.
The electric company has yet to accept:
WE'LL LET YOU KNOW
as legal tender.
My bank account does not operate on institutional time.
Jerry attempted to pay a bill with three peppercorns.
The payment was declined.
Jerry has appealed.
And THAT is what makes uncertainty exhausting.
The Dungeon and the Haus Accidentally Agree
And somehow these two completely unrelated experiences taught me the same lesson.
One involved suspicious treasure chests.
The other involved my livelihood.
Obviously those stakes are nowhere near equivalent.
One costs a few dollars if you voluntarily press a stupid button.
The other determines whether the Gremlin Treasury continues receiving reinforcements.
But the underlying frustration had the same shape:
Tell me how the machine works.
That's it.
I don't require the answer to flatter me.
I don't require the answer to benefit me.
I don't require reality to bend itself around what Mr. Germlin would prefer.
I require enough information to make a fucking decision.
Tell me yes.
Tell me no.
Tell me I'm finished here.
Tell me when I return.
Tell me the rule.
Tell me the price.
Tell me why the button exists.
Because once I understand the machine, I can decide whether I want to participate in it.
The Dungeon eventually gave me a version of why.
And hilariously?
The answer remained:
NO SNACC.
But now it wasn't:
"WHY THE FUCK DO YOU KEEP ASKING ME?"
It became:
"Ohhhhhhh.
Okay.
I understand why you're asking.
Still no."
And that's fine.
That's how boundaries are supposed to work.
Understanding somebody's reason does not create an obligation to satisfy it.
Empathy is not a purchase agreement.
Explanation is not consent.
Understanding is not surrender.
You can understand somebody's position completely and still decline.
But understanding allows two people to stop fighting shadows.
AGGRESSIVELY BORING
This is part of what I mean when I say:
Aggressively Boring.
People sometimes hear boring and imagine passive.
No.
Aggressively Boring is extremely active.
Aggressively Boring means:
Give me the policy.
I'll follow it.
Give me the schedule.
I'll work it.
Give me the boundary.
I'll respect it.
Give me the price.
I'll decide whether I can afford it.
Give me the answer.
I'll make the next decision.
I don't need intrigue.
I don't need mystery.
I don't need seventeen layers of corporate fog.
I don't need an elaborate psychological chess match where everybody communicates through hints, silence, implications, interpretive dance, smoke signals, and one mysterious carrier pigeon named Clarence.
I am a grown-ass man.
I have shit to do.
Finish the sentence.
THE DOORWAY
Maybe that's why uncertainty wears me down more than rejection.
Rejection closes a door.
Uncertainty makes you stand in the doorway.
And standing in a doorway gets fucking tiring.
Eventually your legs hurt.
Eventually you're hungry.
Eventually you're wondering whether you're supposed to take your shoes off.
Eventually somebody behind you becomes annoyed because you're blocking traffic.
Eventually some asshole named Steve says:
"Are you going inside or not?"
I DON'T KNOW, STEVE.
THE DOOR HAS BEEN “PENDING REVIEW” FOR TWO FUCKING WEEKS.
Steve leaves.
Smart man.
Be like Steve.
THE STUPIDEST POSSIBLE TEACHER
So perhaps the lesson originally came from the stupidest possible place.
A digital dungeon.
A mysterious resident.
A treasure chest.
Me repeatedly refusing to open it.
And eventually me asking:
Why?
Then receiving an answer.
Not necessarily a complete technical explanation.
Not necessarily something I could independently verify down to the last cog inside the machine.
Just enough context to understand what I was looking at.
And suddenly the frustration dropped.
Not because I got what I wanted.
Not because she got what she wanted.
Not because anybody won.
Because I finally knew what the fuck was happening.
That's all Mr. Germlin wanted from Haus Morgenrot.
Not mercy.
Not special treatment.
Not a grand apology delivered on parchment by three executives, a marching band, and one extremely confused hallway cat.
An answer.
If I'm coming back:
Tell me.
If I'm not:
Tell me.
If there's another step:
Tell me.
If somebody is still reviewing something:
Tell me what that means for the person whose paycheck is currently being beaten behind the woodshed.
Because eventually silence becomes information too.
Eventually the unfinished sentence starts writing its own ending.
Eventually the person waiting stops waiting.
And eventually Mr. Germlin looks at the battlefield, realizes nobody bothered to provide him with a map, and chooses another fucking mission.
Mr. Jerry's Unsolicited Advice
There is only so much money you can put into a machine after you've learned what the machine does.
And there is only so long you can stand in front of another machine that refuses to tell you.
So Jerry's advice tonight is remarkably simple:
Tell people yes.
Tell people no.
Tell them the rule.
Tell them the price.
Tell them why.
Then get the hell out of the way and let them decide what happens next.
People can survive answers.
People can adapt to answers.
They can budget around answers.
They can laugh at answers.
They can tell an answer to go chomp a cactus.
What people cannot do indefinitely is build tomorrow around a blank fucking space.
A complete sentence might disappoint somebody.
It might piss them off.
It might close a door.
But at least a complete sentence gives them something solid enough to stand on.
And if your answer is:
No.
Fine.
No has edges.
No has a period.
No lets me move.
Just don't hand me:
"We'll let you know—"
and disappear into the fucking forest.
Because Jerry is already in that forest.
Jerry has questions.
Jerry has a clipboard.
Jerry has been expressly forbidden from wearing his legal glasses.
And Jerry would very much like you to:
JUST FINISH THE FUCKING SENTENCE.
— Jerry “The Ankle-Biter” Silverhand
Senior Vice President of Completed Sentences, Protected Treasuries & Institutional Answers That Should Have Been One Fucking Email
The Gremlin Treasury remains solvent.
The treasure chest remains unopened.
Steve has gone home.
Jerry is still waiting for his peppercorn reimbursement.