New picture going around online: an overhead shot of a tidal wave near its breaking point, looking wrinkly, like bundles of buoyant blue yarn or the bark of a banyan tree. On top of the tide, the message “Accept yourself,” as if attempting to soothe the worry lines of the ocean’s forehead before the water kills itself trying to impress the beach. If the tide, in its creases, seems flimsy, ever-changing, a fickle follower of metaphors that could just as easily be knit into a sweater, “Accept yourself” is designed as the stable counselor, the universal law for all the readers, its silver letters unbreakable. That’s how it seemed until I looked more closely and found my friends’ caveats when they posted it. For instance, Amy won’t extend acceptance to the neighbor who practices with his drum set and keeps her awake late at night, nor does Bill urge acceptance for the driver ahead of him who forgot to signal that he’s turning right, nor will John forgive any “pompous” arborist who can, at a glance, identify a banyan tree. It’s not like we’re all that judgmental. We even embraced the retired general who moved into our town when he revealed that he wanted to be an iron-fisted dictator, had that desire ever since he was a boy. We threw a party to celebrate how he was finally being true to himself, bestowing on him a medal made of two guitar picks held together by a safety pin. Eventually, we had a falling out, but not out of any “intolerance of intolerance,” as the philosophical kids like to say. It was boredom, our eyes habitually rolling as he sat on his porch and yelled about “strong government,” holding his brown quilt like a sandwich board. It’s the same boredom I feel with Amy’s flute playing, her attempts to drown out the drums. It’s like she’s trying too hard to be high-brow, like she’s too good for the cat pictures I’m posting. Fuck’s sake, we’re just trying to have fun, aren’t we?