The Simp on the Train

As someone who considers himself a simp in recovery, you’d think I’d know a simp when I see one.

When I walk around my city, I see simps all the time—in cafés, at the supermarket, driving cars, catching buses. They’re everywhere.

Simping is the norm these days. We men are all simps—every single one of us. We’re simps without even realising it.

“Simp” is derived from the term simpleton, meaning a foolish or gullible person. In modern parlance, a simp is a guy who places women on a pedestal—giving them attention, doing favours for them, bending over backwards to please them—all without the slightest reciprocation.

Stupid and foolish indeed.

Simping, then, is a one-way street. It’s giving attention, energy, time, and resources, yet receiving absolutely nothing in return. Looked at from an economic perspective, it’s a terrible trade—if it could be considered a trade at all. One party receives everything; the other, nothing.

The other day, I saw a simp on the train. The wrong train. He didn’t even know he was on the wrong train because he was far too distracted by the attractive woman who stopped to ask him, “Is this the train to the city?”

I watched the interaction from a few rows of seats away. As the woman stood before him, he looked like a human offering blood to a vampire—total focus, zero awareness. As though caught in a trance.

It was the very opposite of grounded, masculine behaviour. I don’t blame him—she was a stunner. As a simp in recovery, I have my simping moments too; and once upon a time, I was just as bad—if not worse—than him.

Just as simping is a one-way street, going in one direction only, so too was this particular train. It happened to be heading toward the city, not away from it.

As soon as the guy shook his head and replied, “No,” the woman quickly disembarked, heading straight to another platform and disappearing from view.

I didn’t have the chance to correct her.

The guy, on the other hand—I did. The moment I said, “Sorry, buddy, you’re on the wrong train,” his simpish trance evaporated and he snapped to—a vampire victim no more.

Simping, like anything, isn’t a permanent state. It can be corrected, but it requires constant effort. It means waking up to those moments when, foolishly and gullibly, you’ve allowed yourself to be consumed by something—an attractive woman, a shiny new car, or that promotion you’ve always wanted.

Simping isn’t limited to male–female interactions. It’s everywhere. It permeates the culture we’re immersed in, and we’ve grown so used to it that we consider it normal. We simp without knowing it a thousand times a day.

If you’re not careful, the very thing you desire—that you simp over—can consume you and lead you astray. And like the man in this story, you’ll end up on the wrong train, possibly heading in the wrong direction.