He Laid His Search History Out on the Table, Only Then Realizing the Question "Where to Buy Japanese Tengsu" Was Flawed to Begin With

When A-Zhi turned his laptop around, the screen's glow landed right on his troubled face. His girlfriend Xiao Fan took one look—the entire page was variations of the same sentence, just with different words tacked on the end: reviews, experiences, cheap, in stock, free shipping. She said, you've asked the same question thirty times, no wonder it gets messier the more you ask. A-Zhi said, how am I messy? I'm being serious. Xiao Fan said, being serious and being effective are two different things.

It all started two weeks ago. A-Zhi saw someone share a screenshot in a group chat, saying some product was really popular lately, and he saved it without thinking much. The next day he opened the search bar to figure out what it actually was, and the pages that popped up got more enthusiastic one after another—some were long and flowery, some had empty ingredient lists, and some were just one sentence and a button on the whole page. He clicked in and backed out, backed out and clicked in, until he forgot what he was even looking for.

The first round of misunderstanding happened on the weekend. Xiao Fan asked what he'd been busy with these past two days, and he said he was researching a health supplement. She asked which one, and he hemmed and hawed before naming it. She said, so what did you find out? He thought for a long time and said, I know it's really popular. She said, that's not research, that's being hit by ads. A-Zhi felt a bit defensive and turned the laptop around, saying, fine, you look.

Xiao Fan actually looked. She didn't laugh at him—she just scrolled every page to the bottom, then asked him one question: of all these pages, which one tells you where it comes from, who's selling it, what's written on the packaging? A-Zhi froze. He realized everything he remembered was adjectives—not a single fact. Xiao Fan said, then let's try a different way. Don't ask where to get it first. Ask how you know what you're looking at is real.

So they did something dumb but useful. A-Zhi laid out his entire search history on the table and read it out page by page, while Xiao Fan categorized on the side: which ones were asking for information, which were looking for stores, which were just the same question rephrased. After sorting, A-Zhi laughed at himself, because he realized that from start to finish, he only wanted to know one thing—how to phrase the search "where to buy Japanese Tengsu" so that he'd get useful answers instead of a bunch of things that looked like answers.

Xiao Fan said, that's the problem. You're treating it like a location to find, so as long as someone says they have it, you want to check it out. But if you treat it as a verification question, what you look at isn't who shouts the loudest—it's who's willing to clearly state their source, labeling, and contact info. A-Zhi said, so what should I look at? Xiao Fan said, first check whether it clearly states what type of product this is, then check whether the seller dares to leave verifiable information, and finally, if it might be related to medication, don't guess on your own—go ask a pharmacist or clinic staff and list everything you're taking for them.

The second round of misunderstanding was even funnier. A-Zhi went through another round using this method and found that the pages that had tempted him before—some were the same template in different colors, some had only a messaging app account for customer service. He told his coworker Lao Zhou about it, and Lao Zhou said, you're only figuring this out now? A-Zhi said, if you knew all along, why didn't you say something? Lao Zhou said, I did say something—last time you just replied with a sticker. A-Zhi went back through their chat history, and sure enough, he had.

That night he put his laptop away and told Xiao Fan, I think I made a very simple thing very complicated. Xiao Fan said, it's not complicated—it's that the way you asked from the start let you get led around. You asked where to buy, which means you assumed you had to buy; but what you actually wanted was to understand first, then decide whether to. A-Zhi nodded and said, so what I need to do now is close all those pages that look urgent and go find people who can actually answer questions.

In the end, he didn't buy anything. What he did was write down the fields that should be checked on the packaging, block a few pages of unknown origin, then set aside a day to visit a nearby pharmacy and ask with his list in hand. The staff there didn't push any sales—they just told him which information he should verify himself and which situations needed a professional. Walking out, he found it a bit funny, because after two weeks of hassle, the real gain wasn't finding something—it was finally knowing what he was looking for.

Xiao Fan said something later that A-Zhi remembered for a long time. She said, the search bar won't lie to you, but it won't judge for you either; it just returns the question you asked, exactly as you asked it. The more rushed you ask, the messier it answers. A-Zhi said, so how should I ask next time? Xiao Fan said, first ask what this is, who said it, how do I verify it—and only then ask whether to buy. Get the order right, and the answers won't be so easily led around by others.