What is priceless to me?

What is priceless to me?

Stupid people make me tired. People who think they know it all—they make me tired. People who invent diagnoses just because they are unable or unwilling to accept one that comes from someone with a lower social or financial status—they exhaust me. They make me nauseous.

There is a specific kind of arrogance that comes not from intelligence, but from ignorance wrapped in privilege. When someone rejects a truth—an obvious, even stated truth—only because it was delivered by someone they deem inferior, that’s not just stupidity. That’s cowardice. That’s blindness by choice. And yes, that makes me tired. It drains me. It makes me sick.

I’ve long passed the stage where I tolerate this behavior, even from people who pay me. And yet, I’ve had to accept a lot of nonsense and stupid ideas from many stupid people—only because they pay me. That’s the economic reality. It’s a waste of time, often, to try and explain how things really are to an idiot. There is no reward in educating someone who refuses to think. Sometimes it’s better to ignore them.

But not always.

In some situations, I find myself unsure how to react. A part of me thinks I should actually be grateful—grateful for the way they treat me, grateful for being underestimated. Why? Because that underestimation always comes back to bite them. Eventually. It’s only a matter of time.

Stupidity always asks for her payment.

And when she does, the price is never small.

I have always believed that being underestimated is a strategic advantage. Because when I hit back—I hit hard. Not out of cruelty, but out of justice. Out of inevitability. Often, I don’t even have to make much effort. Every wrong choice brings its own consequences. Natural ones. I just wait. And then, I watch.

And oh, how satisfying it is to watch those who ignored me, who dismissed me, hit their heads against the wall of their own decisions. The ones who rejected me out of ambition or ego—who contradicted me just to feel powerful—end up biting their lips in regret.

Yes, it takes patience. And yes, I have that.

It takes patience to sit and watch them sink. To see them unravel. To let them come undone not because I made it happen, but because they refused to listen. There’s something almost poetic about it. To watch ambition turn into punishment. To watch ignorance bear fruit.

And for me, that satisfaction? It’s precious.

Really—priceless.