I used to work as a customer service agent for a touring company that sold tickets to events and activities worldwide. My job was to deal with cancellations, rebookings, quality complaints, no-shows by tour guides, etc. You would be amazed at the number of these calls we’d get.

Caller: “Hi! I was wondering if you could recommend something for me!”

Me: “Where are you looking to go?”

Caller: “Umm… let’s say somewhere in Asia.”

Me: “Where specifically?”

Caller: “Mmmm… let’s say Singapore. No, wait, Thailand! No, stop! Japan! Yeah, Japan!”

I scream internally as I go to the EXACT SAME WEBSITE available to the customers.

Me: “What kinds of activities were you looking for?”

Customer: “I don’t care.”

Me: “I need a rough idea.”

Customer: “Pick something!”

I check the queue to see seven calls on hold.

Me: “Sir, we have a website you can search for any kind of activity you’d like, and they are sorted by customer rating. The ones that [Company] recommends are always listed as the first results in bold. You can also sort according to price range and distance from a specific city.”

Customer: “If you don’t want to help me, then f*** off!” *Click*

Me: *Smiling* “Whew! Thank you!”

I moved on to the next REAL call.

I’m in a popular gaming outlet. The cashier is talking to a kid who looks about nine or ten years old.

Cashier: “Sorry, can’t sell you that. That game is rated seventeen and up.”

Kid: “Oh, it’s for my cousin. I’m giving it to him as a gift.”

Cashier: “I said the exact same thing when I was your age and Mortal Kombat 3 came out. They didn’t believe me, either. Pick something else.”

Months later, I’m hanging around outside a mall. A girl who looks twelve or so approaches me.

Girl: “Excuse me, are you eighteen?”

I pull off my cap to reveal a badly receding hairline.

Me: “Don’t I wish! I’m not buying you cigarettes, though, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Girl: “No, no. [New Game] came out and I really want it, but they won’t sell it to me because it’s M-rated. Can you buy it for me?”

She is holding up a small wad of cash.

Me: “Listen. I did the exact same thing when I was a kid and they wouldn’t sell me a mature-rated game and my parents said no. I asked some random shmoe if he could run in and buy it for me, and I gave him the allowance money I’d been saving for months. The jerk went inside this exact same mall here and never came back out. Use your head! You have no idea who I am or who the next joker after me is.”

Girl: “Um… yeah, I guess I didn’t think of that.” *Shuffles away*

It sure is funny watching the next generation after you bump their noses in the same corners of the maze of life.

I am a woman who is not interested in having children. For whatever godforsaken reason, the idea that I am happy as a childless adult does not sit well with others.

I was scrolling through social media on the bus when an elderly woman sitting beside me leaned over and saw a picture of a toddler on my screen.

Woman: “What a cute little face!”

I smiled politely.

Woman: “Is she yours?”

Me: “No.”

Woman: “Do you have little ones of your own?”

Me: “No, I’m not interested.”

She patted my arm gently.

Woman: “Don’t worry. sweetheart. It will happen.”

Me: “I hope not.”

The woman looked as if she had smelled something terrible.

Woman: “But women are supposed to be mothers!”

Me: “I’m not.”

We stared at each other for a few seconds before she shifted and looked away. I heard her take a deep breath as if she was going to say something else, but she never did. I could have just said, “No, I don’t have any,” and left it at that, but she also could have minded her own business in the first place.

I was in first grade in the mid-1990s. My class is currently learning addition and just about everyone is counting on their fingers. We are working on a math sheet in class and I finish mine pretty quickly.

I peer over at the girl sitting next to me and notice that some of her answers are wrong. Upon further observation, I see that she, much like the others, is using her fingers to count, which is fine until she goes to count the fingers on her next hand. When adding numbers such as three and three, she will start with three fingers up on one hand and then raise the other two fingers on her hand for the next three. Then, she moves to her other hand for the last one, but the thumb on her other hand goes up (or out, rather) at the same time as her pointer finger. Then, she counts how many fingers she actively has up. She then writes seven under the total line.

Being the outgoing and kind-hearted child that I am, I try to point out what she is doing wrong.

Me: “Hey, [Girl], that answer’s wrong.”

Girl: *Defensive immediately* “No, it’s not!”

Me: “I can show you. See, when you count—”

Girl: “Leave me alone, [My Name]. You’re doing it wrong!”

Me: “But, when you count on your fingers, you’re—”

She slams her pencil down and puts her hands up near my face with three fingers up on her right hand and her left hand in a closed fist.

Girl: “I’m not doing it wrong, see?! One.” *Her right pinky finger goes up* “Two.” *Her right thumb goes up* “THREE!” *Pointer AND thumb on her left hand go up* “See?! Seven fingers! Three plus three is seven! I’m not wrong! Leave me alone!”

It was at that moment, at the ripe old age of six, that I learned that it’s pointless to argue with a stupid person.

When I was still in college, I got a summer job through literal nepotism; my uncle was the publisher of the magazine I worked at. It was a small office and everyone knew and liked my uncle.

One day, after I’d been there for several weeks, some of the editors started talking about how happy they were that the other intern and I turned out to be such great people to work with and that it seemed like the intern they’d been dreading wasn’t going to show up after all. Apparently, the previous year, someone high on the food chain had hired their kid for the summer and she was horrible. This year, they’d heard that the publisher was hiring his kid and they were all extremely relieved that hadn’t happened.

I looked at them quite quizzically.

Me: “Um, no, it’s the publisher’s niece. And he did hire me!”

They were completely gobsmacked. They had all spent weeks dreading being forced to work with someone who would do nothing and make their lives miserable again, while also quite enjoying my presence. How they missed that I was the person they were dreading, I don’t know. We have an extremely unique last name. The only people who come up when you Google that last name are very close relatives of mine.