As far back as I can remember, my parents were obsessed with death and destruction, and that on a daily basis. While I can understand it was some kind of post-war/cold-war PTSD, people don’t necessarily all react the same way. Some were inclined to compensate by appreciating life one day at a time, while others had a wild hair up their butts on a strange quest for the promised land. What I got bombarded with was just plain coercive, like everything I took any degree of pleasure in had to be shot down with every kind of tragedy as a point of argument à la “Whatcha gonna do if”. If it wasn’t some Fate Magazine style article of some astrophysical cataclysm, relentless reruns of Steinbeck and Felini, or the loss of a beloved pet through their misdoings, say nothing of their objections to every friend I had, there was always the threat of mutually assured destruction at every turn of the cold war. Stuck in the no-zone between east and west forced me down a path I never would have taken if I had a place to call my own, but they all made sure I couldn’t even aspire for that until they were all gone or dead and buried. Now brushing away the ashes of all the bridges I had to burn, I still hear echoes of it from the numpty’s mood swings, but I’m just getting too wise to fall for that futile hostage crisis. The real problem is not so much death as staying alive and sound of mind, so I’m not about to have an anxiety attack just because some jerk can’t stand anyone having a good time. Go pray to your gods for deliverance and let me drink my wine in peace.
Whataboutism's are futile.
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