Bare Bones Yes
Why I Stopped Explaining—and You Should Too
“You have power over your mind—not outside events. Realize this, and you will find strength.” —Epictetus
It’s 5 a.m. I’m half-dead on the couch, scrolling my phone like a reflex. A friend’s message pops up—three long slides explaining why they bailed on our plans last night. Traffic sucked, their boss went nuclear, their dog ate their keys (ok, I made that one up).
Bleary-eyed, I stare at the screen, thinking: Does this make anyone feel better?
Because—I don’t. You either, right?
We’ve all signed this unspoken pact: flake, then drown each other in paragraphs until we’re too numb to care.
I’m over it.
Over the noise. Over the words that dodge reality:
“I screwed up.”
“I didn’t want to.”
You’ve been there—nodding at someone’s elaborate excuse, silently screaming please just stop!
It’s exhausting. Like a reel, you can’t swipe past.
I bailed on a friend the other night—plans set weeks ago. Three hours out, I texted:
“Hey man, not making it tonight. Sorry.”
That’s it.
No flat tire. No fake sickness. Just the truth: I’m out.
They replied:
“Oh, ok… why?”
I didn’t answer. (Rude? Maybe.)
But I don’t make excuses anymore.
I haven’t for a while.
Still, people expect them—like I owe a screenplay to soften the blow.
I’ve heard it all:
“So blunt.”
“That’s cold.”
“Can’t you explain?”
Why, though?
We’re adults. Do we really need a fairy tale to understand plans shift?
I used to feel that sting—that rude label like I should’ve thrown them a pillow of fluff to feel better.
But I didn’t.
Not because I don’t care—but because I do. It’s not arrogance—it’s clarity.
And yeah, it’s a tightrope. Freedom or burned bridges?
Why are we judged more harshly for honesty than for a polished lie?
Excuses are everywhere—white noise.
Scroll through Instagram or X:
“Sorry, no post—Wi-Fi died,” or
“Missed you—Mercury’s in retro.”
It’s a contest for Most Justified Human. Bonus points if it trends. But over-explaining isn’t noble. It’s a waste of time. And frankly, it’s insulting.
Do you think I can’t handle your “no” without unraveling? Do you think I won’t spot the fluff? The thing is—we ask for these lies.
Like my friend’s “why” the other night, they didn’t want the truth. They wanted drama.
It’s everywhere: apology threads, PR spin, coworkers who “will try” but never deliver.
“I’ll get back to you” means never, and we nod like it’s ok. Why do we chase stories when we already know the truth?
This isn’t my first “rude” rodeo. Last month, I skipped the sugarcoat again:
“Can’t come, sorry.”
No saga. Just that.
They called me “aloof.”
I laughed—but it stung. There’s a tension there: being real versus being liked.
That night, I canceled, and I felt it again. Should I fake a cough?
Nope.
The world didn’t end. Their “why” dangled. I slept fine.
“If it’s not a clear yes, it’s a clear no.”
No waffling. No maybe. I wasn’t maybe for dinner. I was no. Why dress it up?
People hate clarity.
It feels “cold.”
Is it?
Or are we just addicted to the drama of excuses?
I’ve also been on the other side—chasing “whys” like they’d soften the sting. They didn’t.
A date once flaked with “stuff came up.” I pushed, and they handed me a car saga. It still felt like dirt. Truth would’ve cut cleaner: “Not feeling it.”
Last night, I flipped it.
No frills. No performance. Just: “I’m out.”
Maybe they think I’m rude.
But I’m good.
And that’s the point.
This isn’t about being blunt for its sake. It’s about owning your choices without the noise.
Responsibility isn’t rude—it’s real.
You don’t need my novel to know I bailed. You just need me to own it.
It’s 5:30 a.m. now.
That friend’s apology slides are still rolling in. I’m not liking them. I don’t have time for noise.
Last night, when I said, “I’m not coming,” I didn’t just skip dinner—I burned the script. They can call me rude, fish for whys I won’t give.
That’s their load, not mine.
We don’t need lullabies.
Next time you bail, I won’t chase your story—I’ll let it sit.
And when I bail?
You’ll get the raw me, owned.
Power lives in what we skip—not what we stack.
Responsibility roars louder than chatter.
So—what’s the last excuse you swallowed? The last “no” you wrapped in fluff? Drop it.
Silence isn’t cold. It’s fire.
And it lights stronger than any lie.
Pick up Mark Manson’s The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fck*—it’s like the loudmouth friend to my quiet rant, telling you to own your nos and ditch the noise. He gets it: life’s too short for fake scripts. Read it, sip your cold coffee, and let’s keep cutting the crap together.