No, really. Tell me more about things you don’t know.

My OkCupid profile says I’m going to my niece’s birthday this weekend “with an irresponsible quantity of My Little Pony gifts,” and a man just sent me the following first message:

“Considering your propensity for my little pony gifts – do you worry you may be spurring your niece to be a brony in the making? (Yes, that is a real word – after the likely google search – you are welcome 😉 )”

Um, have YOU Googled it…? Shitheel.

I’d write back to correct him, and to remind him Bronies are awesome, but he already bugs me. You think you’re dropping some Pony science on ME? Pfft.

I have officially become a master of inferring probably-nonexistent condescension.

P.S. I emailed a friend about this, and she replied, “Idiot. Girls are Pegasisters. Duh.”

“I’m just a girl, oh, little ol’ me…”

The other day I got high-fived for figuring out (in 2 minutes) how to turn on a man’s TV and sound system without assistance, despite the warning: “It’s really complicated, my parents and ex both needed me to do it for them.”

1. Fuck you.

2. What kinda dumbass triflin’ bitches have been up in here trying to operate your shit? They’re power buttons, not a goddamn space shuttle.

3. I lived with a nerd (term of endearment) for years — I dabble in your language, dickweed (NOT a term of endearment).

Something about the whole exchange felt condescending, like you’re impressed that a mere woman can figure out how to handle three big, manly remote controls. Ease back, Freud — I got this.

Or I’m just a bitch.