The nice thing about the Plinky prompts is that they’re at the very least a workout to keep muscles limber–and it really does nudge me further along the path of what I actually more or less planned to write about. Although it still is tumbling on the dryer, pretty much. I’m sort of on Damascus’ heels, but now that Terry’s narrative is going to go back to being more than just a frame for the Damascus backstory, I must check in with my 6’7″ pain in the ass and see where he’s at. I realize that I’m ducking Terry. I strongly suspect that’s because he has Something To Say to me.

I’m a tad less depressed today. At least, I think I am, considering that today I found out that my therapy time is going to be cut to a standard hour at the end of the summer, because I’m getting transferred to a staff person when my fellow leaves.  So I was bummed. Change, grr. It doesn’t help that the prescriber I picked because she actually laughed at my jokes is also leaving. I feel therapeutically Unloved.

On the other hand, I was wearing my 360 achievement shirt “Left the House,” and so this nice fanboy and fangirl started talking to me at the bus stop. “Ooh, story!” she caroled, when she saw the manuscript in my paw. I felt simultaneously shy and gratified. Well, yes, it is a story. It most certainly is.

. . . My mother used to say to me . . . "In this world, Elwood, you must be oh, so smart or oh, so pleasant." For years I was smart. I recommend pleasant. You may quote me.

–Elwood P. Dowd, Harvey (Mary Chase)

I couldn't think of an answer off the top of my head, so I (duh!) went to my Facebook info page. I have a bunch, but *wham*–this one was it. And it's surprisingly hard to talk about.

The first time I heard this as a kid, I felt sad and hurt. "Smart" was once again being dissed. It was made really clear to me that I was a freak in grade school, and it took a long time for me to stop resenting that But when I ran across it again, I finally understood what Mrs. Dowd was saying.

I'm wickid smaht–oh-please-*yawn*-oh-go-away-you-Mensa-asshole smaht. It's screwed with my life substantially, because it intimidates people.

"You sound like you think you're smarter than everybody else." Well, um, ah, if you really want to go there, for the 99% majority of "everybody else," I *am* by some common standards. But I never, ever mean to sound like that. It's just that there's nothing I can do about it–except be pleasant. I have agency there; I can choose to be pleasant; and I do.

Fortunately, I am also wickid nice by nature. Sweet, cheerful, funny, you name it. I *like* being pleasant. It's easy for me; it's my default. Mind you, my default is also to talk in complete paragraphs, or so I've been told; but what really matters is what one says and why one says it.

I tend to meet people where they're at, if at all possible. It's kind of a sociolinguistic thing, in a way. It drives my daughter insane that I pick up a "fake" Boston accent when I talk to blue-collar Bostonians. (Bear in mind, by the way, that my daughter calls me Mawm, and frequently pronounces 25-cent pieces as quotas.) But it's not fake.

I do it automatically–and I do it in a number of different regional places. Its jargon term is codeswitching–and what it means is that people are happier when you speak their language; and your life is easier as a result. The Hahvahd PhD language is swell–but I can speak many others.

I like people a whole lot. As Ruth Gordon says in Harold and Maude, they're my species. Being pleasant encourages people to let you in, not keep you out. And I've found that to be a wickid good thing.