Minding my own pot. - by Stargirl.

"The beans will be fine," you tell yourself as you place the pot on the stove and reduce the heat ever so slightly. After all, you're only going to check Twitter for a few minutes—just a quick scroll while the beans boil, then you'll be right back before anything dramatic happens. The first tweet appears. "Who should sit in the front seat: your mother or your wife?" You sigh, hiss quietly, and keep scrolling because you've seen this movie before. Then another. "If there was a gunshot and you could only save one person, would you leave your pregnant wife behind?" Interesting. Very interesting. You continue. "Do your in-laws actually have to love you, or is basic respect enough?" Before you've finished reading the replies, someone else has confidently declared that monogamy is outdated, another insists it's the only acceptable way to build a family, and somehow two complete strangers are writing dissertations in the quote tweets over a hypothetical situation that has never happened and will probably never happen. You can't help but laugh. It's fascinating how an app can convince thousands of perfectly reasonable people to passionately defend positions they weren't even thinking about five minutes earlier. Every reply is longer than the last. Someone has brought Scripture into it. Someone else is citing culture. Another person is quoting statistics nobody intends to verify. The original poster, meanwhile, is probably smiling somewhere, watching the notifications roll in exactly as planned. Your fingers begin to hover over the keyboard. You have a response. In fact, you have an excellent response. It would be balanced, nuanced, thoughtful, and devastatingly logical. Then you pause. You hiss one more time, shake your head, and remember that not every opinion deserves your attention, and not every question is asked because someone genuinely wants an answer. Some posts exist for one reason only—to make you angry enough to participate. So you resist. You lock your phone. And then... A smell. Not the comforting aroma of beans almost ready to eat. The unmistakable smell of something that has been forgotten for far too long. Your heart sinks. The beans. You race into the kitchen only to discover that while you successfully avoided becoming another victim of Twitter's rage bait, your pot had quietly declared independence. The water is gone, the beans have entered a new geological era, and the bottom of the pot now resembles an archaeological discovery. Somewhere on Twitter, the person who asked whether your mother or your wife should sit in the front seat has already posted another question. The engagement keeps climbing. The arguments continue. And there you are, standing in your kitchen, staring at burnt beans, suddenly reminded that while some people are farming engagement, life has a funny way of reminding you to mind your own pot.

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