Or Am I Right?

A man walks into a bar. He thinks he’s meeting someone to talk. Maybe even make something together. He brings his brain, his energy, maybe a notebook, maybe hope. He sits down. The other person is already talking.

It’s not a bar. It’s a meeting.

It’s a “quick call,” or a “jam,” or a “let me run this by you real fast” situation. I am the man. I walk in every time. I should know better. I really should. But I still think—maybe this time it’ll be different. Maybe this person really wants to think together. Maybe it’s not just... a performance.

It is.

I’ve been cast in a one-act play called Validate Me. I didn’t audition. I didn’t even know I was in it. But I’m already on stage. And right on cue, here it comes:

"Or am I right?"

They say it like it’s casual. Like it’s charming. Like it’s not the social equivalent of slapping a big red button that says “AGREE OR ELSE.” You can almost hear the little cymbal crash. The moment where I’m supposed to smile, laugh, nod, and say “Totally!”

But I can’t. I mean, I try. I’m not here to crush dreams. I’m just trying to follow what they’re even saying. The idea is always some half-melted sundae of buzzwords and vibes.

“It’s like if meditation had a dashboard.”

“It’s TikTok, but for introverts.”

“It’s an app that brings people together through... tone.”

And when I blink, just to process, they lean in. “You know what I mean, right? Or am I right?”

It’s not a question. It’s a spotlight. You are either clapping, or you’re the villain. There is no third chair. And it’s never about something important. Not life-or-death. Not even mildly useful. It’s always about something weirdly small and oddly intense. They are deeply emotionally attached to a concept they invented last Tuesday while eating eggs.

So I try to engage. I ask a gentle question. I say something like, “Cool, and what’s the actual use case?” Because I am still, tragically, trying to be helpful. That’s when it turns.

The smile flickers. They pull back slightly. Now I’m the one with the energy problem. I’m “overthinking it.” I “don’t get it.” I’ve “missed the point.” The vibe has officially died, and guess who killed it?

It wasn’t a conversation. It was a vibe audition, and I didn’t book the part.

This has happened more times than I can count. And I always see it coming. The signs are there: the fast-talking, the glazed-over eyes when I speak, the exaggerated use of “we” when it’s clearly a one-person idea parade. And still, I play along. Every time. Like a well-meaning golden retriever who just wants to be helpful. It’s humiliating.

Why do I do it? Because I love collaboration. I love messy thinking and building things with other people. I love it when ideas become better because someone else asked the right question. That’s the tragedy here. I’m not jaded. I’m just repeatedly tricked into clapping for things that fall apart the moment you touch them.

And the worst part is—sometimes I wonder if I’ve done this. If I’ve cornered someone else in my own pitch spiral and asked, “You get it, right?” with the same glazed urgency. That’s what makes this extra sticky. It’s not just them. It’s us. It’s me. It’s the dynamic. It’s what happens when we mistake certainty for connection.

Still, I can’t help but laugh. It really is a joke. Not a great one, but it has timing.

A man walks into a bar.
Only it’s not a bar, it’s a Google Meet.
And it’s not a joke, it’s a slow, quiet social hostage situation.
And the punchline is “Or am I right?”

And yes, I will probably walk into it again. Even after writing this. Even after the fifteenth time I’ve said “Sure, happy to help” and ended up listening to a monologue wrapped in a trap question, performed for an audience of one.

Next time, I’ll notice the signs. I’ll smile, sip my drink, and say “Interesting!” then quietly find the exit. I’ll go do the kind of work that doesn’t require pretending. The kind that welcomes disagreement. The kind where people ask questions because they mean it, and not because they want applause.

Or I’ll say yes again. Because I’m tired, or I want to believe in someone, or I didn’t see the little smirk coming.

And I’ll hear it again. “Or am I right?”

And I’ll sit there, just like always, trying to decide if I want to scream, laugh, or cry. Probably all three. Probably in that order.

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