Earlier I saw a Tumbl with text indicating that the poster is proud of whomever is reading it for getting out of bed and generally existing.
I didn’t get it. Why would you want some random person you don’t know to be proud of you, and especially for no reason? In that case, their pride in you is completely worthless because it literally doesn’t matter what you do. Why would you even want someone like that to be proud of you anyway?
I get it, some people are depressed and theoretically these excuses of good feeling are supposed to make them feel better, but it just comes off to me as more condescending than anything. The poster probably doesn’t even mean it that way, intending real happy joy whatever, but think about it. If I were really sad, I would not be cheered up by Random Stranger telling me how proud she is that I emerged from my mother’s womb or that I managed to fall out of bed before 3 PM. Moreover, even if I did get cheered up by it, it’d be only briefly, because I’d feel like a loser in retrospect for finding THAT to be the ray of light in my life.
Beyond that, for people it does cheer up without immediate backlash, there seems to me to be a subtle sinister repercussion here. It’s akin to pandering to the lazy slob—it only reinforces his laziness.
I don’t know, it just doesn’t seem like the way to go about it. Lowering the standards of respect and sympathy only makes them less meaningful. It’s like we’re suffering from emotion inflation or something.
There wasn’t really a point to this.
Edit: Also, Well brings up a good point. I could be any jackass. Why should someone be proud of me?
Based on a comic I saw. (http://gunshowcomic.com/648)
I threw away some plastic bags of old snacks. Expired chocolate and cheese crackers. Several minutes later, a passing homeless man passed by and saw the bags in the trash. He took them and laughed to himself happily. It made me feel weird.
I don’t like homelessness. Aesthetically and ethically. People just… shouldn’t be homeless. Or at least, they shouldn’t be forced to be homeless due to economic circumstances or whatever. Humanity needs more space. Humanity needs to up their credibility in the solar system and colonize Mars. The planet is overpopulated with this destructive, apathetic, self-serving species.
The above are some disjointed and pointless thoughts I had while sitting on the bus.
Sometimes I’ve felt like, if I were really rich, I would walk around cities and buy things for homeless people if they seem nice. Probably not though, I’d have to lose some compassion in order to get rich.
The conqueror raises his hand, and his men shoot fire with their thundersticks. The statue of the Black God is riddled with holes. One of his hands fall off.
"What gives you the right to destroy our culture?" the high priest asks.
The conqueror laughs and turns to the priest. “Our power gives us the right,” he says proudly. “We are greater than you, so we can do what we like to you.”
"What if you encountered someone more powerful than you?" the high priest asks.
"There is no one more powerful than us," the conqueror replies, looking back at the statue. He raises his hand again.
His men fire again, only this time something is different. There are cries, and several of them fall to the ground, bleeding. The conqueror turns in confusion. He thinks some of his men have betrayed him. Then he realizes the ones still standing are all staring. He turns around again.
The Black God is no longer a statue. His black mirror gleams and his injuries emit smoke. He reaches down and his hand reconnects to his arm.
The conqueror shouts at his men to fire again as he raises his own weapon. The burning stones hit the Black God’s mirror, bouncing off it as if they were rubber balls. They fly back to the conqueror’s men, killing several of them. Foolishly, they continue to fire, and soon the conqueror stands alone.
He turns to the priest and realizes that the priest has ripped his abdomen open with a knife. Even so the priest stands, staring back at the conqueror and smiling.
The Black God pulls out his black knife, letting loose more smoke from the resulting wound. The conqueror is frozen by fear as the Black God lightly traces the knife along his steel armor, making a shrill sound of glass against metal.
Suddenly the conqueror realizes. Inside his armor and clothes, his body has been cut into pieces. Then he is dead.