There’s nothing that annoys me more than when someone explains a tiny tic or compulsion and goes: “What can I say? I’m a little OCD.” Here’s what makes obsessive-compulsive disorder crippling for people who actually have it: It’s not “a little” anything. It consumes every aspect of their life. Some people who suffer form it can’t sleep; some can’t hold down jobs because of this alienating anxiety. You check the door twice to make sure it’s locked. It’s not the same. You’re not Howard Hughes.

I suspect that this is yet another example of trying to show people that you have flaws, which pass for hidden depths and demons and make you seem more complex than you really are. But claiming that you have OCD because of one tiny thing that makes you nervous if revealing a fundamental misunderstanding of what OCD actually is. It’s akin to getting the answer to one question wrong and going: “What can I say? I’m a little mentally retarded.”

A few days ago I was watching Unwrapped, the show in which Marc Summers explains fun facts about American comfort foods, as well as the process by which they’re made. It is what it is.

Anyway, the show often trots out this convention: “In fact, so many M&Ms are made each year that they could cross the Earth eleven times!” I know this is supposed to impress me because, hey, that’s a small object compared to a big one. I understand why this would be a fact you would throw out to a child who hasn’t completely developed his sense of distance.

But I’m aware that the Earth is finite. Actually, it’s completely possible that one of the most popular candies in the world can measure up to  7,926 miles. Why are people still selling this comparison to me? I want something else.

Have you ever listened to a celebrity interview in which the topic of prayer or tradition or church or, especially, guilt comes up, and the celebrity says, “Well, I was raised Catholic so…” and then trails off?

The first period of that ellipsis is the familiar story of a person growing up and feeling comforted by a sense of community, tradition, and austerity. The second period is when they realize that a relationship with God is a real sacrifice, not to mention that morality is more situational than what was handed down to them. The third period is rejecting most of the teachings and compromising the rest with whatever else helps them to get up in the morning.

If I’m simplifying this, then forgive me. But they’re simplifying it too. Because they don’t fill in that ellipsis by relating the real story of what happened. They expect us to do the dirty work, as if that fragment ends the same way someone might say, “I used to believe in Santa Claus but…” As if organized religion is a superstition one grows out of. As if it’s something that either takes or doesn’t.

I’m Catholic, but I don’t begrudge anyone else of his spiritual conflict or even rejection of faith altogether. What I resent is the assumption that this trajectory is what is supposed to happen. A person’s journey with religion is one of the most complex, unique aspects of his life. No two people have the same experience, so why act as if we all know exactly what you’re talking about?

Many non-religious people condemn religion for being one size fits all. They are insulted by the implication that everyone is the same, that all tenets should apply to everyone equally. Isn’t that limiting? Isn’t the world too complicated for something so, you know, catholic?

I would ask them the same thing.

Depending on whom you ask, the phrase “I just threw up in my mouth a little” originated from 2004’s Dodgeball, Jim Benton’s Happy Bunny keychains, or countless other comedic sources culled from hearsay and half-remembered dreams.

It was funny (six years ago) for the same reasons anything is funny: incongruity and universality. Having the urge to throw up, then not throwing up after all is something that, while unexplainable, has happened to everyone. (My brother and I called it “the sour splash” as kids.) Despite that relatable quality, the saying caught on because it’s also something that no one talks about in polite conversation. Hence, the element of incongruity essential to comedy.

It also existed as a non-joke: an understated, straight-man cap or button to something someone else said. It presented an aloof but sincerely disgusted tone that not many people can master. (It makes sense that some people credit an old Steve Carell Daily Show feature, since aloof but sincere is exactly what he does.) So it was original in theory, context, and practice.

Now that the saying has passed its expiration date, it does none of those things. It’s not original, and it’s a feeling that is now laid out on the social table. I’m not going to laugh anymore if you say this to me. In fact, the saying itself makes me want to…I don’t know. Something else.

Occasionally, someone will compliment me on an article of clothing I’m wearing. Perhaps this same exchange has happened to you:
“I love your shirt.”
“Thank you. That’s sweet of you to say.” (That’s always my response. Be a gentleman and throw that compliment right back. The word “sweet” is key too. It’s disarming.)
“Where’d you get it?”
“…”

I never have a cool response, so the conversation is automatically over. All of my clothes come from some combination of Macy’s, Urban Outfitters, J. Crew, and The Gap. That’s it.* I’m going to say one of those stores’ names, and the person is going to shoot me an underwhelmed expression. She’ll be somehow disappointed in both me for shopping at unimaginative, middle-class stores and herself for being impressed by completely average fashion. Let’s say—most interesting case scenario—I bought the shirt online somewhere. I’m not going to sound like a weirdo and go: “Have you heard of www.nomas-nyc.com? What about www.outofprintclothing.com? I like the shirt I got there almost as much as the one I bought from www.distantreplays.com!” Chances are, I’ll just go, “Online somewhere.” Again, end of conversation.

But what did she expect? That I have my own loom on which I sew men’s dress shirts? That I designed my own pattern of plaid and commissioned this bespoke one-of-one shirt? I got it at the mall.

Is there a possible cool answer for that question? Let me know. Are there dudes who just go, “I’ll never tell my secrets” and run away? Do people wear shirts that have been in their families for generations? Do people win shirts off people’s backs in card games and stuff? I can’t even imagine a scenario in which this question doesn’t paint me into a corner.

*- I mean, don’t get me wrong. I swag the shit out of everything I have. I just don’t have the money (or, frankly, the figure) to get my gear at cool places.

How many times have you heard some variation of: “Oh, I’m really smart and could have achieved so much more, but, you know, I’m a bad test-taker. I get nervous, and I just sort of forget it all, even though I knew it just a couple of minutes earlier! I threw up before the SAT. Seriously.”

Sure, dude. Look, I’m not saying that some people aren’t crippled by anxiety and affected by the expectations of high-pressure situations. But it’s quite coincidental that you “knew” everything before you actually had to prove that you knew it, then it fell out of your head. Is it possible that you thought you knew it because of grade inflation or something like that but, objectively, maybe you didn’t? Is that even possible? And if you have ADD, you were given extra time. What more do you want? For the test to not apply to you?

I’m not saying that you’re stupid if you trot out the “bad test-taker” defense, but there aren’t many obviously intelligent people who use that excuse. You’re not in good company, even if you are one of the rare exceptions in which this is true, so I don’t understand why people cling to it. I didn’t get perfect scores on the important standardized tests, but my scores were basically commensurate with how intelligent I am and what I’m good at. I can’t really argue with them. I’m not going to cop out with a line about how I’m not good at proving what I actually know.

Are the SAT and ACT perfect? Does they actually prove intelligence or predict how you’ll fare in life? No, I don’t think I’m suggesting that. But they’re two of the few universal benchmarks that we have. I do think they’re important, and I do think they say something about you if a) you completely—unexpectedly—bombed them, and b) you think they hold no weight as a result. If you don’t like it, don’t go to college I guess?

And what are you really saying with this defense? At the very least, you’re admitting that you have poor comprehension skills that can be destroyed given adverse circumstances. And in that case, your knowledge wasn’t worth much in the first place. When you needed it most, it wasn’t there.

If you’re going to bullshit someone about why your scores were low, I’d prefer the “cultural bias” route. That one I’ll hear you out on.

[Update: I caught Daniel Tosh’s Happy Thoughts this weekend, and he has a bit that’s really similar to this. I didn’t knowingly steal it, and I think having a thought process similar to Daniel Tosh’s should be punishment enough.]

As you already know, I can’t stop watching MTV’s The Real World. Last night, this year’s fey sociopath, Frank, who is like the spiritual hate-child of Ignatius J. Reilly and Blanche DuBois, cheated on his boyfriend out of promiscuity and lack of self-control. Although he claims that he loves this boyfriend, he also “doesn’t know what it’s like to be in a relationship” and “made a mistake” with some meth-head he met at a club. The episode ended with him and his jilted lover deciding that this just wasn’t the right time for him to settle down learn how to not purposefully destroy everything important to him.

The part that really interested me was the way his housemate Alex commiserated with him afterwards. Frank mused that, though he had erred, he should “have no regrets.” Alex agreed, saying, “I feel like you can be sorry, but you shouldn’t regret anything.” Then I cried for all the millenials, because what good is being sorry if it’s detached from any kind of education or reformation? In fact, being sorry is empty reflection any time it’s divorced from regret. Making mistakes is how we learn—we tell children as much.

Part of why I watch this show is to be baffled by the completely alien values and behavior of people who are not even a half-generation younger than me. Among that set, this allergy to regret seems to be taking hold (and the distancing phrase “everything happens for a reason” can never be far behind).

As much as I hate this phrase “everything happens for a reason”—some of the most godless people in the world seem ironically wedded to predestination—I realize that this is semantics. “Everything happens for a reason” used this way means that, with perspective, something positive can result from misfortune. What Alex means is that you can acknowledge a mistake, but that nothing can be gained from dwelling on one. It’s okay for contrition to be a fleeting reaction, but you shouldn’t use it to, you know, actually judge yourself negatively. And being sorry without regretting is just that, acknowledging a mistake you made while ignoring the misplaced motives that led to that mistake. Clearing the smoke without putting out the fire.

I mean, look, Frank, we all accidentally sleep with meth-heads. It’s true that you can’t go back and change the mistake. But you can change yourself. Everything does not just happen for some nebulous reason. Sometimes things happen because you made them happen and, in suggesting that you shouldn’t have regrets for wrong actions, you’re taking away accountability, as well as anything instructive that could have resulted from your mistakes.

In a way, regret and guilt are the most important impulses because they remind us that, if we were to do things over again, we would do them differently. Regret insists that we are imperfect, evolving humans. It’s a reminder that we are different people today than we were yesterday, and that growth can be more comforting than convincing yourself you were right. Anyone who wants to pretend otherwise is a fey sociopath.

Regret is a cornerstone of rational action. Believe it or not, there’s even a part of your brain that governs your behavior based on knowledge of past behavior and potential consequences; it’s just as natural as the compulsion to cheat on your boyfriend. And usually when you feel guilty, it’s for an excellent reason. It’s okay to hold onto that for a while.