Extra-ordinary

I once initiated an argument with a man who resented my bland inoffensiveness. It was likely that, in the eyes of wider society, I was worth a lot more than this fusty old gentleman. I was reasonably intelligent, relatively attractive, and perhaps even vaguely witty and amusing. He was unemployed, unkempt, and warranted numerous governmental health warnings. My weakness, however, was my vanity, and he exposed it ruthlessly. He whiled away hours on his hobby of undermining self-belief. And in many respects, in this instance, he was entirely justified.

I had achieved nothing of note. I went from dreaming of stardom, to hoping for success, to wishing I was someone else, somewhere else. My love life, for example, was dull, uninteresting, and frequently gave me cause to feel utter humiliation when recalling past romantic events. Everything about me was loathsome and ordinary, and left little or no impression on anyone who had the ambivalent pleasure of meeting me. His crushing conclusion would always revolve around the observation that I was one of billions of identically-ordinary little humans pursuing their unattainable and worthless lives.

As he reached this damming summation, he chuckled blithely, because he knew that his hurtful words could not penetrate his own thick hide, and because he, pointless and worthless as he appeared to others, was self-assured, self-confident, and self-congratulatory on his ability to ridicule others. But I don't see him often.