Morning Coffee: Simpy Writer Fella

coffee pour beans

Should’ve seen that coming. I went to the Rich Dad Poor Dad seminar I mentioned yesterday and learned a bit. I even took quite a few notes. If I had to guess, I’d say it wasn’t a waste of time.

It was a pretty small class and we all wore nametags–or were supposed to, at least; there were some rebels–so that the speaker could get all personal and first-namey. She singled me out from the group a few times and I was going along with it and getting appropriately drawn in by what she was saying until she asked me what I did.

“I write,” I said stupidly. I’m not huge on answering questions in groups. Which may be why I sucked in school.

I don’t care how composed someone is. When I deliver an answer they obviously have predetermined loathing for, it’s as obvious as if they had screamed their anguish at the pure idiocy of my life choices. Her eyes went flat and a thought bubble appeared above her head that said, “Uh huh.”

She barely made eye contact with me after that. Not until I didn’t get up to sign up for the next course they were putting on. Then the guilt got laid thick, but it was a coached response, a lament more than any actual effort being expended on changing my mind. “If you haven’t signed up yet, why not?”

Simple. I’m not going to spend $200 on you, lady. She said it was usually $995, and I have no doubt that she was telling the truth, but it didn’t change anything. According to her, it was 20 cents to the dollar, which I also can’t argue with, but she and I disagreed when she implied that it must then be a good buy. You can slap a price tag on anything and discount it heavily. That does not in itself lend value.

But ultimately, if I was in a position where I wanted to spend money on a money-making/saving course, I probably would have gone for it if she hadn’t hit me with the loathing hammer beforehand.

It was written all over her face. “Who is this guy? Why is he here? He needs a haircut. He’s not dressed as well as the rest of these people. Jeans and woolen sweater. Who does he think he is? Wear a suit, you unemployed sponge.”

I get it. I can’t argue with it, except to say that I am employed, but what good does that do? No, she made all kinds of sense; it just wasn’t my kind of sense. She lost me when she wrote me off, and now all I have is notes.

And a parking ticket. I got a parking ticket.

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