Consider

There is a very thin line between being that person who keeps every detail to themselves as if it is a government secret, and being one who has to explain every process between the creation of the universe and why they were very upset when they left McDonald's at 4:37pm on a rainy Saturday evening right before Gerald's twenty-fourth birthday party to take place in Vondelpark near its Amsterveenseweg entrance. Sometimes I believe these people are the #1 reason behind the increasing baseball bat sales and why we can't have nice things. (For legal reasons I do not endorse the behaviour the previous sentence hints at.)

As annoying as it is, these people are not giving any incorrect information. Neither undersharing nor oversharing can be classified as an action to break the invisible social trust pact between two parties. At least, not for me. Today I would like to focus on the elaborate storytellers of this simple world and explore the absurdity of our human language.

Consider this scenario: You are heading home from a busy day of your nine to five job, just to realize the past-you has not been considerate enough to feed the now-you. There is a supermarket down the road and you think to yourself: "I could do some red pasta today!" Luckily the pasta aisle is stocked despite the density of student rooms in the neighborhood. You grab two packs of those weirdly shaped carb sticks and start walking to where the fresh goods are. As you internally woo! for finding tomatoes, one detail catches your eye: "Vegan tomatoes, €2.39 per kg."

There it is. Now you are wondering whether you are still at a hangover state due to Gerald's birthday party or your sanity is being targeted by a cruel prank. You look around for the hidden cameras until you spot a sign informing you that the supermarket is geared with security cameras 24/7. Unless you are a part of a weird Truman Show skit, you are convinced that there are no pranks going on. Unsure, you wave at a worker and ask where you can find the non-vegan tomatoes.

The worker looks equally puzzled why you may be asking such a question, but is willing to help you out. He squeezes his eyes and hesitantly asks "Madame, do you mean the ready meals with tomato sauce? They are right on--" The internal realization that the sign is serious disassociates you from the talk momentarily and you find yourself lost on the labeling preferences of your local supermarket. You point at the sign and wait for an explanation.

Nope. As silent as he is, he looks at the tag and then meets eyes again.

"Why is it labeled as... vegan?" you ask. You sense some slight frustration behind his face. It's a familiar look that tells you he's supposed to be somewhere, do something. Not this. He already deals with the weirdest of customers every day. He's seen worse. To everyone's benefit, Ryan is a kind soul: "Because our tomatoes do not have any animal products. You can find this sticker on other items that does not contain, say, dairy and meat products." He shrugs. You can see the "I'm not paid enough for this." look very clearly.

You feel as if you unlocked a quest in your life. Your existence drifts away as you take a gentle look at that pale blue dot filled with insufferable vagueness and mystery. You think of every struggle and victory you have ever had in your life. The unnecessary burden of all there is. The dread fills you with an urge to scream at the soulless letters. To find an answer. To find out what horrible precedent event had to occur before this sign had to be there. To learn who or what was hurt until someone had to specify you would not be finding this piece of vegetable at a butcher's or a cheeseseller's. (Is that a word?) You take a deep breath and decide to not deal with this on a Monday night.

You gently step towards your car. Your hunger is long gone.

You know, that feeling? The tag is factually 100% correct, yet it generates more suspicion than it resolves. It makes you wonder at what point adding extra detail to your description becomes an indication of self-defence, confession or panic. If I walked up to you and said "I am definitely not a murderer," would your first response be along the lines of relief? If I realize your panic and add "No, I swear I am not!" would you feel any better? (By the way, I swear I am not!)

I guess this has to do with Grice's maxims of cooperation. More specifically, maxim of quantity. As we communicate with each other, we rely on unwritten standards in our expressions regardless of our language. Maxim of quantity expects us to follow the assumption that we are not giving any more information than necessary. Not too much, not too little. Personally, I find the violation of this very humorous in cases similar to what I have discussed already.

How do you get to my place? Take the second left after the traffic lights. Do not wait for them to turn blue, because they will not. After that, head into my garage through its door when it is open. My house number is 52, which is after 51. I do not keep primed explosives there. This is totally not an assassination attempt.

It does not need to be humorous though. If I told a waiter that I do not want any coffee in the green tea I am ordering, they will most likely assume I am on some substance before they find any humor in that. They will ask me to repeat to avoid potential miscommunication. You would assume giving more details about an order makes everything simpler, but it does nothing other than creating unnecessary confusion. As far as its flexible meaning conveys, a Turkish idiom expresses the situation well: You put a watermelon shell inside the donkey's head.

For that reason, it ruined some words for me. Any full sentence that has the word definitely now makes me question my safety. "After listening to Gerald and taking the wrong turn 3 times in a row, we are definitely heading in the correct direction because we adecided to use the GPS," as you tell me through the phone call we have. Look, I am all for acknowledging gambler's fallacy but such a statement does not refresh my trust in Gerald. The fact that you now have a way to assess if you are on route does not make me feel any better about this. How ironic that a word as strong and precise as definitely has fallen a victim of something as simple as overstatements.

Moreover, it has some unexpected effects on some of the daily aspects of life. This whole thing reminds me of a list from Bored Panda. Second picture in that is a bunch of peanuts with a huge sign saying "This product contains peanuts." These signs make me genuinely wonder what previous encounter by the seller got them to create the sign. It is easy to laugh and live on, yet the existence of such warnings indicate a fix for a loophole for those with malicious intents. This is the exact reason why we have have instruction manuals at the size of an encyclopedia. It does not mention that you should keep your pets away from the washing machine? That just asks for a dead cat and a lawsuit to your company. I wish to be joking at this moment, but here is a story of a man who used a lawnmower as a, checks notes, hedge trimmer. Then won.

Even better, the ninth picture from the same list is a fridge with a note saying "This is not an exit." All of a sudden, I am tempted to find that wizard which uses it as a private gateway to whatever dimension wizards live in. Oh well.

In conclusion, overstatement is a bizarre and niche corner of human communication. It is sometimes humorous, sometimes worrying and sometimes just a sign that our species is still evolving. I have not created this post for a reason; it's just that I keep thinking for examples of the art of excruciatingly specific speech in my daily life. It gives me some insight of how redundancy is actually a verbal tool that is more capable than, well, wasting time for everyone. I felt the need to type this from the keyboard of my electricity-powered laptop.

You reach home after having to visit two grocery stores. You want to get this over with, so you search for the red pasta recipe online. You skim through the ingredients. Some 200 grams of tomatoes, a pack of pasta in the shape of your own choice, salt and some spices. Seems easy, so you scroll further. A moment later, you see it.

Someone finds your phone on the street with a broken screen. The lock is on, yet one line is highlighted: "Warm 2 liters of liquid water in an electric kettle."