You taught me to be nice, so nice that now I am so full of niceness, I have no sense of right and wrong, no outrage, no passion.
Impractical. Rash. Mercurial. Capricious.
My tombstone can spout volatile words all it wants, but may it never be said of me that I was nice. Just, nice.
Of course, I’ve always wished for a steady stillness as well, a trait I greatly admire. But it has always mildly annoyed me when people try to pay me the compliment called nice. I think it is no different from saying, you hid your flavour, I couldn’t really taste it.