Measuring Success by the Insults I Receive.

 

I measure my success not by likes, praise, or conventional metrics, but by the quality and persistence of the insults directed at me. Chief among my dedicated critics is Harry Munker. His latest offering—that I “haven’t risen high enough to fall”—brought me genuine satisfaction. Being labeled an “attention-seeking man child” ranks among my favourites, and his accusations of me being a bad father, delivered by someone who has never fathered a child himself, never fail to amuse. Far from wounding me, these barbs affirm that I have made an impact worth noticing. Those who invest significant time and effort in insulting me usually reveal a form of high esteem, however grudging or twisted it may be.

The Currency of Attention.

This approach stems from a simple observation: indifference is the true opposite of significance. As Elie Wiesel wisely noted, “The opposite of love is not hate, it’s indifference.” Love demands attention, and so does hate. When someone repeatedly engages with my work, crafts pointed critiques, and returns again and again, they are granting me relevance. Munker’s ongoing commentary on my content transforms potential dismissal into a sustained, if adversarial, dialogue. In the economy of attention, that investment carries weight.

I see this clearly in the specific insults lobbed my way. Calling me “attention-seeking” while devoting noticeable energy to tracking and responding to me carries a rich irony. Accusations about my fatherhood from a non-parent feel more like projection than piercing insight. These shots often reveal more about the critic’s own worldview, insecurities, or need to diminish what challenges them than they do about my actual character or actions. Psychology bears this out: intense negative reactions frequently arise when someone perceives a threat to their equilibrium. My visibility, ideas, or style apparently disrupts enough to warrant the effort. In that fixation, I find validation.

The Power of Reframing.

Human minds are wired with a negativity bias, an evolutionary remnant that makes insults linger far longer than compliments. Many people internalise criticism as injury. I choose to reframe it. I treat potent insults as trophies of resilience and proof that I have risen high enough to be targeted. This isn’t denial—it’s emotional agility. It turns potential poison into fuel. Public figures, thinkers, and provocateurs throughout history have thrived by weaponising opposition in exactly this way. The resulting spectacle entertains audiences and sharpens one’s own resolve.

Of course, I recognise the risks. Relying too heavily on opposition as a metric could allow critics to define me. The wiser path involves selective detachment: savouring the most satisfying salvos from worthy adversaries like Munker while dismissing mere noise and continuing to build. Yet for someone with thick enough skin to enjoy the game, dedicated critics serve as living proof of impact. They confirm that I am not easily ignored.

A Philosophy for the Digital Age.

In today’s world of curated highlight reels and fragile online egos, measuring success by the intensity of pushback feels refreshingly grounded. Persistent critics rarely waste their time on the inconsequential. Their effort—however hostile—signals that I matter enough to provoke. Harry Munker’s barbs are not setbacks in my ledger; they are scoreboard updates. By this metric, the game continues productively, and I remain unbowed.

I embrace this philosophy because it aligns with reality. Those who devote hours to dismantling my work, persona, or ideas betray their own inability to look away. In their reluctant regard lies quiet confirmation: I have risen high enough to be seen, and perhaps even high enough that any fall would be worth watching. For that, I am oddly grateful.