The Great Divide: A Study in Human Contrasts
(Gemma Mindell’s unscientific personality test)
The human experience is defined by a series of binary choices that silently sort us into two distinct camps of behavior and temperament. From the way we handle a mountain of laundry to how we navigate a restaurant menu, these small, daily habits reveal the core of our personalities more accurately than any psychological profile. This collection explores the "two types of people" who inhabit our world, celebrating the hilarious friction between the meticulously organized and the delightfully chaotic.
There are two types of people . . .
Those who load the silverware with the handles facing up and those who load silverware with the handles facing down.
The "Handles Down" crowd are the risk-takers. They prioritize cleanliness, believing the spray arm needs a clear shot at the fork tines, even if it means risking a puncture wound from a stray steak knife. They live for efficiency and danger.
Conversely, the "Handles Up" faction consists of the germaphobes and the cautious. They prioritize hygiene, ensuring no human thumb ever touches a "clean" spoon. They move through life safely, if slightly less sanitized.
There are two types of people . . .
People who squeeze the toothpaste from the middle and "the rollers" who insist on squeezing from the end.
The middle-squeezers are the agents of chaos, living for the thrill of the now without a single thought for tomorrow’s accessibility. They likely own several half-finished craft projects and view "expiration dates" as mere suggestions rather than biological imperatives.
Conversely, the rollers are the architects of order who probably have a color-coded spice rack and a five-year plan for their retirement. They find deep spiritual fulfillment in a perfectly flattened tube, viewing any stray bulge of paste as a personal affront to the laws of physics and fiscal responsibility.
There are two types of people . . .
People who set one alarm and those who set two or more.
The single-alarm practitioner is a terrifying specimen of human discipline, possessing a biological clock so precise it mocks the very concept of a snooze button. They likely rise with a serene stretch, hydrate immediately, and possess the kind of terrifying inner peace that allows them to trust a lone electronic beep with their entire professional reputation.
Conversely, the multi-alarm brigade lives in a state of self-inflicted psychological warfare, treating their bedside table like a mission control center. They require a rhythmic symphony of sirens spaced five minutes apart to gently negotiate their soul back into their body, ultimately viewing the first four alarms as mere suggestions rather than mandates.
There are two types of people . . .
People who fold their laundry immediately and those who empty the dryer into a basket and live out of the laundry basket.
The immediate folders are the high-achievers of domestic life, possessing a level of foresight that borders on the prophetic. They view a warm towel not as a comfort, but as a ticking clock of wrinkle-potential that must be neutralized with surgical precision.
Conversely, the basket-dwellers are the ultimate pragmatists who treat their wardrobe like a treasure hunt. They possess a unique spatial awareness, knowing exactly which layer of the cotton strata contains their favorite jeans, and they refuse to be intimidated by a piece of furniture as demanding as a dresser.
There are two types of people . . .
People who finish a series in one weekend and those who watch one episode a week to "savor the experience."
The binge-watchers are the emotional sprinters of the digital age, fueled by caffeine and the relentless "Next Episode" countdown. They view sleep as a mere suggestion and prefer to process their fictional trauma in one massive, soul-crushing wave before returning to society as a shell of a human.
On the other hand, the savorers are the masters of discipline who treat a television show like a fine vintage. They possess the uncanny ability to walk away from a cliffhanger, living their lives with a calm superiority while the rest of the world screams into the void of a Reddit spoiler thread.
There are two types of people . . .
People who load the toilet paper roll with the loose end facing the wall and those who load it with the loose end facing into the bathroom.
The wall-facers are the true enigmas of the household, often cited as agents of chaos or perhaps just owners of very athletic cats. They enjoy the thrill of the hunt, clawing at the tile like a rock climber searching for a grip just to secure a single square of relief.
The forward-facers are the civil engineering enthusiasts who believe in the "over" method as the only path to a functional society. They value efficiency and visual accessibility, treating the dangling sheet like a red carpet rolled out specifically to welcome them to their porcelain throne.
There are two types of people . . .
People who eat the pizza crust and those who don’t.
The crust-eaters are the rugged survivalists of the dinner table, dedicated to the philosophy that no carb should ever be left behind. They view the charred perimeter as a crunchy reward for a job well done, often treating it as a rustic breadstick to be dipped in ranch or used as a final, chewy palate cleanser.
In contrast, the crust-discarders are the culinary elite who treat pizza like a surgical operation, removing the heart and leaving the skeletal remains behind. They possess a strict "filling-to-fluff" ratio and refuse to waste valuable stomach real estate on what they consider to be merely the pizza's edible handles.
There are two types of people . . .
People who keep their email inbox at zero and those with ten thousand unread messages.
The inbox-zero enthusiasts are the digital monks of the modern era, finding spiritual enlightenment in the glow of a "no new mail" notification. They treat an incoming message like a live grenade, diving to diffuse it within seconds to maintain the sterile, pristine vacuum of their workspace.
The five-figure hoarders, meanwhile, are the chaotic philosophers who understand that if an email is truly important, the sender will eventually find them in person or send a carrier pigeon. They view their notification badge not as a source of anxiety, but as a high score in a game of digital neglect that they are currently winning.
There are two types of people . . .
People who arrive at the airport three hours early and those who sprint to the gate.
The early birds are the logistical architects of the travel world, finding a strange, meditative peace in the hum of terminal air conditioning. They have already cleared security, reorganized their carry-on twice, and are currently enjoying a twenty-dollar sourdough sandwich while judging the departure board with the calm focus of a seasoned air traffic controller.
Conversely, the sprinters are the adrenaline junkies of the concourse who view the final boarding call as a personal challenge rather than a warning. They navigate moving walkways like Olympic hurdlers, trailing a scent of desperation and Starbucks, firmly believing that any minute spent in an airport that isn't spent in a pressurized metal tube is a minute of their life wasted.
There are two types of people . . .
People who like to build sandcastles and those people who like to kick them down.
The architects of the shoreline are the eternal optimists, armed with plastic buckets and a dream of coastal real estate. They spend hours meticulously sculpting moats and turrets, seemingly oblivious to the fact that the Atlantic Ocean has a very aggressive foreclosure policy involving the incoming tide.
The kickers, however, are the agents of chaos who understand that all glory is fleeting and gravity is a suggestion. They view a pristine sand fortress not as art, but as an irresistible physical challenge that requires a well-aimed heel to restore the beach to its natural, flat equilibrium.
There are two types of people . . .
People who follow a recipe exactly and those who ad lib.
The exact followers are the chemical engineers of the kitchen, treating a cookbook like a sacred legal document that must be upheld to the letter. They possess a collection of leveled measuring spoons and a deep-seated fear that adding an extra pinch of paprika might cause the entire soufflé—and perhaps the neighborhood—to spontaneously combust.
Conversely, the ad-libbers are the culinary jazz musicians who view "two cloves of garlic" as a personal insult to be ignored. They cook by "vibes" and ancestral whispers, tossing ingredients into the pan with a reckless abandon that results in either a Michelin-star masterpiece or a dish that tastes suspiciously like a dare.
There are two types of people . . .
People who arrive thirty minutes early and those who arrive "fashionably" late.
The early birds are the anxious sentinels of the social world, often found lurking in darkened parking lots or circling the block to avoid looking desperate. They treat a 7:00 PM start time like a military deployment, arriving so prematurely they occasionally help the host finish vacuuming or witness the frantic delivery of the backup ice.
The fashionably late crowd consists of optimistic chaos-agents who believe time is merely a suggestion rather than a linear reality. They operate on a cosmic delay, convinced that the party truly begins the moment they grace the threshold, regardless of whether the appetizers have already turned into cold, neglected relics of a bygone hour.
There are two types of people . . .
People who follow the GPS blindly and those who claim they "know a shortcut" that inevitably leads to a cornfield.
The GPS loyalists are the digital disciples who surrender their free will to a calm, synthetic voice echoing from the dashboard. They will stoically drive into a literal lake or a construction trench if the satellite dictates a left turn, firmly believing that Silicon Valley knows their commute better than their own eyes do.
The shortcut aficionados are the rogue explorers of the suburbs, fueled by a misplaced confidence in their internal compass and a vague memory from 1994. They view main roads as a personal insult and will happily trade a paved highway for a muddy tractor path, eventually forcing their passengers to bond with local wildlife while waiting for a tow truck in the middle of nowhere.
There are two types of people . . .
People who shop with a color-coded list and those who wander the aisles letting the snacks speak to their soul.
The color-coded shoppers are the tactical architects of the grocery store, navigating the aisles with the grim efficiency of a diamond heist. They view a rogue impulse buy as a personal failure and likely have their route mapped out to minimize exposure to the tempting, non-essential frozen pizza section.
The snack-whisperers are the whimsical drifters of the supermarket, treating the fluorescent-lit aisles like a spiritual retreat for their appetite. They possess no plan other than a vague desire for sustenance, allowing a bag of limited-edition habanero chips to guide their destiny while completely forgetting that they actually came in for dish soap and toilet paper.
There are two types of people . . .
People who believe "roughing it" involves a tent with a fire and those who require a climate-controlled RV with satellite TV.
The tent-dwellers are the masochistic purists of the wilderness, convinced that true relaxation requires a thin layer of nylon and a rock poking into their lower lumbar. They view a face full of campfire smoke as a luxury perfume and consider a successful trip to be one where they only mildly fear for their lives during a midnight thunderstorm.
The RV enthusiasts are the high-tech nomads who believe nature is best viewed through a double-paned window while reclining in a leather chair. For them, "the great outdoors" is simply a scenic backdrop for their microwave popcorn, and they refuse to consider it a vacation unless they can stream the local news in sixty frames per second from the middle of a forest.
There are two types of people . . .
People who use a ruler and double-sided tape and those whose gifts look like they were wrapped by a very enthusiastic raccoon.
The precision wrappers are the structural engineers of the holiday season, approaching a cardboard box with the intensity of a high-stakes origami master. They demand seamless patterns and crisp, forty-five-degree folds that could cut glass, ensuring that the recipient feels a profound sense of guilt for even considering tearing the paper.
The raccoon-style wrappers view tape as a structural adhesive meant to cover up their lack of spatial reasoning and general impatience. Their gifts are characterized by jagged edges, mysterious lumps, and enough Scotch tape to stabilize a suspension bridge, signaling to the recipient that the contents were essentially wrestled into submission rather than packaged.
There are two types of people . . .
People who know what they want before sitting down and those who undergo an existential crisis every time they see a menu.
The decisive diners are the tactical strikers of the culinary world, having memorized the digital PDF days before the first breadstick even hits the table. They possess a terrifying level of certainty that allows them to close the menu with a defiant snap, staring down the server with the confidence of a person who has never once experienced the sting of order envy.
In contrast, the crisis-stricken patrons view a laminated list of appetizers as a heavy philosophical burden that calls their entire identity into question. They oscillate wildly between the daily special and a burger they don't actually want, eventually panicking under the pressure of a hovering waiter and ordering a garden salad that leaves them staring mournfully at their companion’s carbonara.
Ultimately, these divisions are what keep life interesting, ensuring that every early arrival has a latecomer to wait for and every decisive orderer has someone to share their fries with. Whether you are the one folding towels while they’re still warm or the one hunting for a matching sock in a plastic basket, there is a certain comfort in knowing that someone else is out there doing the exact opposite. After all, the world needs both the architects of order and the agents of chaos to remain perfectly, humorously balanced.