The first thing I want to say is: I'm not your dad. I'm not, as the saying goes, the boss of you. I believe that everyone should make their own choices in life, free choices, weird choices, choices unbounded by stifling norms, provided your weird free choices don't hurt anybody.
The genre of article that chides people for deviations from social protocol has never appealed to me. Andy Rooney-ass plaints, Thomas Chatterton Williams-fried tut-tuts, Emily Post-informed pearl clutches, just so much noise. Take that iced latte to the job interview! Cut your spaghetti into little bits like a toddler. Retain your seed with monomaniacal focus or goon extravagantly. If the only moment in your over-programmed life to trim your fingernails is on the morning subway commute, I do not begrudge it. An infinite rainbow of life choices presents itself to each of us every day, and it is our privilege and joy to navigate them, constantly, until we die, our consciousnesses little vectors of forward motion, like our simian ancestors hurtling through the trees, vine to vine to branch to vine, a choice, a choice, a choice. Hallelujah.
And yet! I do have a limit. There are some things—one thing in particular, that I'm thinking of right now—that, while they don't literally hurt anybody, or even, in any strict technical sense, inconvenience, disrespect, or even affect anybody, are nevertheless, so saturated with spiritual degradation and depravity that it's incumbent on right-thinking people to call it out and say, No. We live in a society. You transgress the most generous bounds of our social compact. You must stop. So: This is me doing that: