A blowtorch toward a snowflake

A friend of mine hasn’t actually blown her top, but she’s definitely had it up to here:

Listen. Really, listen. I don’t care how much melanin content you’ve got, who or what you want to consentually rub your gooey parts against, or how you’d like to identify yourself. Are you useful? Can you make me a sandwich? Mow my lawn? File my taxes? Massage my feet while painting my toenails? Entertain me?

No?

Really?

Nothing …

Then why for any deity’s sake should I give a flying flip about your well being? Because you feel discriminated against? Show me.

Let’s play.

I’m a woman of color in flyover country. I’ve never been able to pass. I’m a survivor of many things I never deserved, but the sun just keeps rising so I better keep on.

The world has crapped on me and my own over and over and yet, we persevere. You, my dear snowflake, really can too. Yes, you too can own a tiny house in the suburbs with innumerable plumbing problems and mice so your children can go to the right schools and you’ve got the bragging rights of living in the right suburb.

What’s that? Your point is being missed?

So you’re a socialist? That’s awesome. What, exactly, are you contributing to society? From each according to his ability, yes? So, what are your abilities? What are you throwing into the pot for redistribution?

Oh! You have a bowl.

You really should read the whole thing.

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