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I was having a really good morning. I was drinking grape juice and reveling in the fact that it's going to be in the blessed seventies for a few days and reading thoughtful SPN meta and reviews of my favorite television shows. I was zen. And then, in the middle of a television review on a flister's journal, I saw this:
I mean, I would have a much easier time understanding it if she was, say, retarded and they got sick of her special needs. Or she had some physical ailment that made her unpleasant to look at - drooling, a lazy eye/slurred speech, horribly disfigured face. (look, I realize these things sound terrible, shallow and petty, because they are, but if you're going to abandon a 5-year-old, these are more valid reasons than "her medical bills cost too much."
And my good mood deflated like a freeze-dried pecker in a faulty plastic bag. I know these mindsets exist, that they are, in fact, the prevailing social sentiment when it comes to the value or lack thereof of people with disabilities, but it still stings to see them expressed so baldly and cavalierly by another human being. It's a case of caveat lector, I guess, and I can't fault the poster for being honest in their virtual bathroom, but I wish I hadn't seen it. It's thoughts like these that make me wonder why I fight so hard to keep my head above water. If my value as a human being rests solely on my physical body, then I have no value at all and should spare myself further heartache by quaffing a bottle of pills and lying down decently dead. Why not? My physical condition isn't going to improve. It will, in fact, deteriorate. Best to be polite and do away with my inconvenient self so that I don't offend the shallow sensibilities of the lucky ones.
No, Internet Popo, there's no need to call the real popo to save me from the audacity of the ultimate in independent thinking. I've no plans now or in the future to imbibe a Sominex cocktail and punch my ticket to Club Tartarus. I'm too attached to the few mean pleasures I've created for myself and too afraid that the police who respond to my death would be smoking hot studs whom I could no longer ogle. I just wish I wasn't given hourly reminders of how unwanted I am in this supposedly inclusive, enlightened, and pluralistic society.
Damn. And I was all set to froth about the nonsensical banality of this week's Numb3rs and the rage-inducing, faux street cred badassery of Bettancourt. So, you're from Compton? So is Sinclair, you vestigial piece of PC pandering, but I don't hear him bringing it up every three minutes. Shut the fuck up and prove you got to the FBI on merits not firmly attached to your chest and tucked between your legs.
Maybe I'll save it for the Sunday hodgepodge.
I mean, I would have a much easier time understanding it if she was, say, retarded and they got sick of her special needs. Or she had some physical ailment that made her unpleasant to look at - drooling, a lazy eye/slurred speech, horribly disfigured face. (look, I realize these things sound terrible, shallow and petty, because they are, but if you're going to abandon a 5-year-old, these are more valid reasons than "her medical bills cost too much."
And my good mood deflated like a freeze-dried pecker in a faulty plastic bag. I know these mindsets exist, that they are, in fact, the prevailing social sentiment when it comes to the value or lack thereof of people with disabilities, but it still stings to see them expressed so baldly and cavalierly by another human being. It's a case of caveat lector, I guess, and I can't fault the poster for being honest in their virtual bathroom, but I wish I hadn't seen it. It's thoughts like these that make me wonder why I fight so hard to keep my head above water. If my value as a human being rests solely on my physical body, then I have no value at all and should spare myself further heartache by quaffing a bottle of pills and lying down decently dead. Why not? My physical condition isn't going to improve. It will, in fact, deteriorate. Best to be polite and do away with my inconvenient self so that I don't offend the shallow sensibilities of the lucky ones.
No, Internet Popo, there's no need to call the real popo to save me from the audacity of the ultimate in independent thinking. I've no plans now or in the future to imbibe a Sominex cocktail and punch my ticket to Club Tartarus. I'm too attached to the few mean pleasures I've created for myself and too afraid that the police who respond to my death would be smoking hot studs whom I could no longer ogle. I just wish I wasn't given hourly reminders of how unwanted I am in this supposedly inclusive, enlightened, and pluralistic society.
Damn. And I was all set to froth about the nonsensical banality of this week's Numb3rs and the rage-inducing, faux street cred badassery of Bettancourt. So, you're from Compton? So is Sinclair, you vestigial piece of PC pandering, but I don't hear him bringing it up every three minutes. Shut the fuck up and prove you got to the FBI on merits not firmly attached to your chest and tucked between your legs.
Maybe I'll save it for the Sunday hodgepodge.
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