I used to think winning arguments made me smart. I believed if I had the best facts and the loudest voice, I would win. I argued like a warrior, waving my words like swords. I thought every debate was a battle, and I had to win at all costs.

But after every “victory,” I stood there alone, like a guy clapping at the end of a movie when everyone else had already left. My “opponent” was gone, my “friendship” was damaged, and all I had left was an awkward silence.

Then it hit me—I had spent my life fighting for people who didn’t even know I existed. I argued about actors like they were my best friends. I threw facts at people, defending my favorite celebrity like they paid my bills. But the truth? That actor wouldn’t even notice me if I was on fire in front of them. I was like a fan screaming in an empty stadium, cheering for a team that didn’t even know I was there.

And politics? That was even worse. I argued about politicians as if they cared about me. I believed my words mattered, like my favorite leader would show up at my house, shake my hand, and say, “Thank you for fighting for me!” Meanwhile, they were probably having fancy dinners together, laughing while we argued over them.

It was like watching two drivers argue about whose rich boss was better. They screamed, insulted each other, and nearly threw punches. Meanwhile, their bosses shook hands, smiled, and drove off in fancy cars. And the drivers? Fired. Left on the sidewalk, still mad, still shouting, still unemployed.

That’s when I finally understood—this is not my war. I was fighting battles that had nothing to do with me. I was defending people who wouldn’t even let me use their bathroom if I needed to. It was like getting upset over a stranger’s burnt toast—watching it from across the street and somehow feeling personally attacked by the smoke.

Now, when someone tries to argue with me, I just smile, nod, and say, “You are right.” They expect a fight, but I don’t give them one. They stand there confused, holding their anger like a broken phone with no battery.

And here’s the truth—arguing about other people’s lives is like trying to do heart surgery on a plastic doll, in a house that isn’t yours, using a spoon. You can try, but it won’t change anything.

Peace is easier. Let the rich and famous fight their own battles. I’ll be here, drinking coffee, free from arguments I never needed to be in. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll finally accept that ice cream isn’t a vegetable.