I was thinking about this kid from down the street, Liam, the high school junior. The other day, I caught him in a full-blown argument on his phone, pacing the driveway like a goddamn caged tiger. Later, I saw him on his porch, head down, furiously typing. Turns out, he was defending some pop star online. He told my wife he felt "personally attacked" when people criticized her music. And frankly, the intensity of his reaction… it struck a nerve. It pulled me back, way back, to something I’d completely forgotten about myself. There was a time, back in the 70s, when I’d spend hours, literally *hours*, typing out letters to the editor — always anonymously, of course — defending my favorite authors or even, god help me, certain political figures. Not against logical critiques, mind you, but against what I perceived as utterly unfounded, malicious attacks. I’d read some dismissive one-line review in the local paper, or overhear some idiot at the grocery store pontificating about how awful so-and-so was, and a switch would just FLIP. A visceral sense of outrage would surge, a profound irritation that someone could be so wrong, so willfully ignorant. It felt like a physical affront, a personal insult to my own judgement, my own taste. I remember one instance, it was about a new literary novel everyone was shitting on. I spent an entire Saturday afternoon at the dining room table, drafting and redrafting a two-page missive, dissecting every flaw in the critical consensus, constructing what I thought was an impenetrable argument for its brilliance. My wife would occasionally peek in, ask if I was "still at it." I’d just grunt. The effort… it was tremendous. It consumed me. And for what? For some ephemeral satisfaction of believing I had, in some small, unseen way, corrected a grave injustice. I never sent half of them, but the act of writing was the thing. The combat. Seeing Liam like that, all red-faced and indignant, battling strangers over some pop singer he'll probably forget in five years… it’s a mirror, isn't it? The same irrational proprietary feeling, the same intense emotional investment in something utterly peripheral to one's own life. It’s like a neurological short circuit, this compulsion to protect something you feel an unearned connection to, as if its perceived value reflects directly on your own. It's fucking ridiculous, honestly. And here I am, thinking about it at 2 AM, the memory still carrying a faint, embarrassing echo of that old indignation. I suppose what gets me is the sheer, unadulterated passion. The way it feels so utterly crucial in the moment, that defense, that stand. And then, a decade or two later, you can barely remember why it mattered so much. You just remember the *feeling* of needing to fight. God, it's just… a lot. For something that, in the grand scheme, means absolutely nothing. But in that moment, for that kid, for me back then, it felt like EVERYTHING. And the effort. The sheer, colossal effort of it all. Still blows my mind.