I Don’t Care That He Died

A penny for your thoughts, Feminism

I’ll go ahead and say it: I don’t care that XXXtenacion died. I don’t care that you broke your elbow. I don’t care about him enough to know his art name correctly, or to bother to google it. I care about the numerous people he abused and tried to violently kill, even though I don’t know who they are and I’ll probably never meet them in person. I care about them enough, as I do for all the survivors in my life, to not hear his music or support him. In such a materialistic, uncertain world, something is certain: what we choose to give our money to, matters. You might be just a dollar sign to those companies, but every dollar sign matters.

It shows others what we tolerate, what we accept as normal, and the sort of things we grow to adore.

I don’t wish well upon the people who intentionally, frequently and knowingly inflict pain on others. I hope all rapists die. I hope all child molesters die.

You know how the (privileged, ignorant) story goes: but they are (were) talented. Or their looks come up. Or their dance moves. Oh please. Please!

Fortunately, most of these deadbeats are objectively talentless. Even if, though, how have we as a society grown to accept women’s and other marginalized groups suffering and pain as collateral damage to men’s talent and good art work?

Which I have to repeat, isn’t even good.

As the famous Latin phrase by philosopher Drake 6B.C. goes:

I don’t know why they been lyin’ but your shit is not that inspiring

There are so many sources of inspiration around you. Look into the success stories of rape/abuse survivors. Look into the terror stories of rape/abuse survivors. There are plenty of both. Know that you get a say in which stories become more frequent.

You’re directly contributing with what you allow, normalize, idolize.

Choose wisely SVP.

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