I once gave someone a self-help book for their birthday, called

Host: The evening air inside the pub was thick with laughter, music, and the smell of fried potatoes and spilled ale. The lights were dim, their glow reflected on the dark mahogany tables, where glasses of half-finished drinks stood like half-told stories. Outside, rain drizzled softly, making the windows blur and shimmer — the city’s way of whispering secrets.

Jack and Jeeny sat by the window, coats draped over the chairs, a shared plate of fries between them. A neon sign from across the street flickered the word “OPEN” — though, by the look of Jack’s face, his heart hadn’t been for a while.

Jeeny: grinning mischievously “Lou Sanders once said, ‘I once gave someone a self-help book for their birthday, called something like “Stop being such a lazy pig.” And you know what, they didn’t even thank me!’”

Jack: chuckling “Sounds like my kind of gift. Brutal honesty wrapped in sarcasm.”

Jeeny: “Honesty? Or cruelty disguised as motivation?”

Jack: “Same thing these days, isn’t it? Everyone’s so sensitive, they call truth ‘offense’ and offense ‘truth.’”

Host: The bartender wiped the counter behind them, the sound of cloth on glass soft, rhythmic. Somewhere in the corner, a man with a guitar strummed a few lazy chords — something half between a tune and a memory.

Jeeny: “There’s a fine line between helping someone grow and making them feel small.”

Jack: “And people confuse both all the time. We live in a world obsessed with ‘self-improvement.’ Everyone’s trying to optimize themselves like they’re an app update.”

Jeeny: “And yet we still crash daily.”

Jack: laughs “Exactly. The irony is, half the people giving advice haven’t got their own life together. You ever notice that? The loudest voices in self-help sound like people trying to convince themselves.”

Jeeny: “So what are you saying, Jack? That trying to improve is pointless?”

Jack: “No, I’m saying the obsession with becoming someone ruins the person you already are.”

Host: The music swelled, a low murmur of voices overlapping. A group at the next table laughed loudly, the sound sharp and happy, before fading again into the general hum. Jeeny picked up a fry, twirling it in the air like a conductor’s baton.

Jeeny: “So what if Lou Sanders gave that book out of care? Maybe she really wanted to help someone get unstuck. Not every awkward gift is an insult.”

Jack: “Oh please. If someone handed me a book that said ‘Stop Being Lazy,’ I’d hand them back one that said ‘Stop Being Arrogant.’”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the problem, Jack — we take everything so personally. Sometimes the truth stings because it’s looking straight at us.”

Jack: “You sound like one of those motivational speakers on YouTube. Next you’ll tell me pain is just progress wearing ugly shoes.”

Jeeny: smiling “Maybe it is. Pain makes us move — sometimes away, sometimes forward.”

Host: The rain picked up, tapping on the window, soft but insistent. Jeeny leaned back, her eyes glimmering, her voice steady yet playful.

Jeeny: “You know, I think humor’s just pain that’s been told enough times to make peace with itself. Maybe that’s what Sanders meant — you can’t help people by taking life too seriously.”

Jack: “Or maybe she meant people are ungrateful jerks.”

Jeeny: laughs “Possibly both.”

Host: Jack took a sip of his drink, the amber liquid catching the light. His expression softened, and for a moment, the usual weight behind his eyes lifted — replaced by something like curiosity.

Jack: “You ever read those self-help books?”

Jeeny: “Oh yes. The ‘find your inner light’ kind. The ‘visualize success’ kind. Even the ‘how to stop overthinking about how you’re overthinking’ kind.”

Jack: “And?”

Jeeny: “They helped. Until I realized I was reading them to fix myself instead of understand myself.”

Jack: “You sound like a therapist.”

Jeeny: “Maybe we all are — just bad ones.”

Host: The bartender turned off one of the hanging lights, the room dipping into deeper shadow. The guitarist strummed a gentle tune now, something tender, fragile, hopeful.

Jack: “You know what I think? The problem isn’t that people don’t thank us for trying to help. It’s that most help feels like judgment disguised as love.”

Jeeny: “That’s because most people don’t know how to love without fixing. They see flaws and think their job is to erase them.”

Jack: “But what if some flaws are the only honest parts of us?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe we stop fixing and start accepting.”

Jack: “So… no more self-help?”

Jeeny: “Maybe just less ‘self’ in the help.”

Host: The rain eased, leaving behind a soft mist that blurred the streetlights outside. A taxi splashed through a puddle, its headlights streaking across the glass. Jack watched, his reflection merging with the city’s glow — man and world, momentarily indistinguishable.

Jack: “I had a friend once — brilliant guy, terrible at life. Always late, always broke, always laughing. One birthday I gave him a planner — you know, the kind that promises to organize your soul. He never used it. He just told me, ‘Jack, I’m not lost. I’m just wandering differently.’”

Jeeny: softly “And what did you say?”

Jack: “Nothing. But years later, I realized he was right. Some people aren’t meant to be improved. They’re meant to be understood.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the lesson — not every gift is meant to change someone. Some are just meant to say, ‘I see you.’”

Jack: “Even if that means seeing their laziness?”

Jeeny: smiling warmly “Especially then. Because sometimes what looks like laziness is just someone tired of running from expectations.”

Host: The pub grew quieter, the last few customers lingering, their laughter fading into a kind of shared drowsiness. Jeeny picked up her glass, raised it slightly, her eyes glimmering with mischief and warmth.

Jeeny: “To the lazy pigs — may they rest joyfully, eat well, and find love without needing to improve.”

Jack: laughs, raising his glass “And to the givers of bad books — may they learn that some hearts can’t be fixed, only fed.”

Host: Their glasses clinked, the sound small and bright against the low hum of rain returning. For a moment, the room shimmered with the warmth of shared irony — two souls realizing that maybe, in the end, the greatest self-help is not helping at all, but understanding.

Outside, the rain subsided, the street reflecting the neon glow — OPEN still flickering like a stubborn pulse in the dark.

And as Jack and Jeeny laughed softly, the world outside seemed to smile with them — imperfect, ungrateful, utterly human — and therefore, still beautifully worth saving.