The Fuck Would I Say What For?

I will never, never, put a fucking trigger warning on anything. Ever.

Do you read the newspaper? Do you watch movies? Do you go on the internet, ever?

If you are so emotionally crippled that you can’t handle seeing or reading something icky, you need to be in a fucking hospital, under observation, until such time as the world isn’t too sad for you.

I saw, in person, at age 14, a homeless man lie down on some railroad tracks and get bisected by a couple tons of fast-moving steel.

My girlfriend, when I was 25, had an abortion that has pretty much ruined the rest of my life.

I have been sexually abused by family members and friends, beaten unto the point of hospitalization by my father, and witnessed a man set on fire by a flare gun fired into an automobile.

I am the product of domestic abuse. I have been shot at by muggers. I have witnessed stabbings.

If you can’t handle a spider, some blood, or a sad news story, get the fuck off the internet.

I mean this.

Go to therapy, if you can afford it.

Grow a fucking vagina and woman up. Horrible shit is de rigueur, kids. It’s almost 2012. You want to play ostrich you go ahead. I won’t help you do it, though.

For two years I couldn’t see an Asian baby without crying. Every locomotive whistle reminds me that life can occasionally be so shitty you’d rather die than live it. My dad calls me five or six times a month, because he’s my dad.

Shut the fuck up and live. Either that, or die. Those are your options. The world doesn’t owe you a nice soft pillow. You cannot, and shouldn’t, ask it to be nicer to you than to others.

Fuck your trigger warnings. The phrase “trigger warning” triggers enough resentment in me to necessitate one.

You are not special, and millions of other people make it through the day, the week, and their entire lives without coddling. Respect them enough to do the same, or up your fucking dosage.

Pansies.