Last week, some guy emailed me in response to a Craigslist ad, giving me reason to pause. Despite having never met me, this man proceeded in combative and condescending fashion to rant against me. At the end, he further insulted me by offering me only 30% of what I wanted for the item.
For some reason, I let this get to me. After putting the matter to some thought, I arrived at the following conclusion: I should not let this insignificant person hold any sway over me. I would not let him goad me into a response, no matter how reasoned or appropriate, for my energies were not worth it. This pathetic man deserves my sympathy, for obviously he has nothing better to do than troll Craigslist looking for people to critique.
One major reason people like this get on my nerves is because they’re stupid. Stupid people confuse me. Not that I’m omniscient, but I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck, and the people with whom I hobnobbed in graduate school and in my current job far exceed this jerk in intellect and conversation. As for this man, his ignorance confuses me.
I don’t as a general rule hang out with certain people. Despite invitations, I have never gone to a bar after work or to a dance club. I do not sit around shooting guns or watching American Idol, and until recently I didn’t blog either. None of the people in these circles are doing anything bad necessarily, it’s simply that those are not places or activities in which I feel comfortable.
A month ago, I took my guitar down to a store to get some professional help. I took up the guitar just after Christmas by learning chords and downloading music off the internet. As such, I know nothing of guitar jargon or theory or really care. Fortunately, they were able to easily diagnose and treat the condition at hand. As I stood waiting for the associate to find someone to perform the adjustments, I glanced around the store and felt very out of place. The guitar store contained the typical assortment of stereotypical music acolytes one might expect, each more bizarre than the last. I stood there in Wranglers and a Croft and Banks collared shirt, in stark contrast to anyone else. No wonder my sister asked me to go with her to pick up her guitar last year.
When fashion briefly approximated my wardrobe in college, I enjoyed a brief period of popularity, which was as transient as the Reno snow. No sooner had fashion moved to a different genre than those in whose company I once found acceptance mocked and denigrated me for sticking with what I had. I reminded them that I’d worn these things because I already owned them, not because they became cool. They didn’t care. They were really using the opportunity to justify their own pathetic existence.
I needed to learn again not to kick against the pricks. This impolite rapscallion didn’t know me from Adam. He also deserves no response. I refuse to debase myself for his amusement. I know I am right with God, and so nothing he has to say matters one whit.
For some reason, I let this get to me. After putting the matter to some thought, I arrived at the following conclusion: I should not let this insignificant person hold any sway over me. I would not let him goad me into a response, no matter how reasoned or appropriate, for my energies were not worth it. This pathetic man deserves my sympathy, for obviously he has nothing better to do than troll Craigslist looking for people to critique.
One major reason people like this get on my nerves is because they’re stupid. Stupid people confuse me. Not that I’m omniscient, but I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck, and the people with whom I hobnobbed in graduate school and in my current job far exceed this jerk in intellect and conversation. As for this man, his ignorance confuses me.
I don’t as a general rule hang out with certain people. Despite invitations, I have never gone to a bar after work or to a dance club. I do not sit around shooting guns or watching American Idol, and until recently I didn’t blog either. None of the people in these circles are doing anything bad necessarily, it’s simply that those are not places or activities in which I feel comfortable.
A month ago, I took my guitar down to a store to get some professional help. I took up the guitar just after Christmas by learning chords and downloading music off the internet. As such, I know nothing of guitar jargon or theory or really care. Fortunately, they were able to easily diagnose and treat the condition at hand. As I stood waiting for the associate to find someone to perform the adjustments, I glanced around the store and felt very out of place. The guitar store contained the typical assortment of stereotypical music acolytes one might expect, each more bizarre than the last. I stood there in Wranglers and a Croft and Banks collared shirt, in stark contrast to anyone else. No wonder my sister asked me to go with her to pick up her guitar last year.
When fashion briefly approximated my wardrobe in college, I enjoyed a brief period of popularity, which was as transient as the Reno snow. No sooner had fashion moved to a different genre than those in whose company I once found acceptance mocked and denigrated me for sticking with what I had. I reminded them that I’d worn these things because I already owned them, not because they became cool. They didn’t care. They were really using the opportunity to justify their own pathetic existence.
I needed to learn again not to kick against the pricks. This impolite rapscallion didn’t know me from Adam. He also deserves no response. I refuse to debase myself for his amusement. I know I am right with God, and so nothing he has to say matters one whit.
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