Unregistered
September 11th, 2006, 06:44 PM
Were you there? Was a loved one there? Than Fuck Off! You have no connection to it, and no right to shamelessly attach yourself to something that had nothing to do with you.
It doesn’t matter where you were, what you were doing, or who you were doing it to.
I don’t give a fuck if you were sitting in traffic like the rest of us, listening on the radio as lives ended as a day gained infamy. I don’t care if you were asleep and dreaming happy little dreams... or if you were hiding in your daughter’s closet jerking off with a plastic bag around your head. You don’t deserve my sympathy, my attention, or to speak. You weren’t there. You don’t know anyone who was there. You have no right to connect yourself to, define yourself by, or relate your loss to that day. You weren’t in the building as it came tumbling down, you weren’t ducking debris, or digging through it to find those last few alive.. you were sitting in your car, at your desk, or otherwise on your ass listening to a fucking radio. Seeing a fucking television… and trying to broadcast yourself into someone else’s life. You don’t deserve it… you don’t get it, and you certainly don’t get to fucking exploit it. I don’t want to hear about how you were drinking coffee when then first plane hit, or that you were driving your daughter to school. You want to talk, then you be the one who watched as the plane headed into your office, or as the building collapsed around you, all fire and concrete, like 6000 tons of hell raining down on your head. Tell me about digging for bodies days later with no sleep and dust so thick in your lungs you could cough up a freeway. Tell me about a weeks of chaos, blood, mangled steel, and reassuring a scared and grieving mother that you’ll do everything you can to find her baby, even though you just finished digging one up. Tell me about real tragedy, watching the world collapse around you as the sky falls in. Tell me about a tower to the gods brought down by devils from hell. Tell me about your husband, or wife, son, or daughter, tell me about your father whose surprise birthday party was to be later that night…
Tell me about that, but don’t tell me what kind of latte you had, or the donut you were eating as the news came over the air… don’t tell me those things because I don’t care.
Don’t tell me those things because you have no right. It’s not about you… it’s about them.
It doesn’t matter where you were, what you were doing, or who you were doing it to.
I don’t give a fuck if you were sitting in traffic like the rest of us, listening on the radio as lives ended as a day gained infamy. I don’t care if you were asleep and dreaming happy little dreams... or if you were hiding in your daughter’s closet jerking off with a plastic bag around your head. You don’t deserve my sympathy, my attention, or to speak. You weren’t there. You don’t know anyone who was there. You have no right to connect yourself to, define yourself by, or relate your loss to that day. You weren’t in the building as it came tumbling down, you weren’t ducking debris, or digging through it to find those last few alive.. you were sitting in your car, at your desk, or otherwise on your ass listening to a fucking radio. Seeing a fucking television… and trying to broadcast yourself into someone else’s life. You don’t deserve it… you don’t get it, and you certainly don’t get to fucking exploit it. I don’t want to hear about how you were drinking coffee when then first plane hit, or that you were driving your daughter to school. You want to talk, then you be the one who watched as the plane headed into your office, or as the building collapsed around you, all fire and concrete, like 6000 tons of hell raining down on your head. Tell me about digging for bodies days later with no sleep and dust so thick in your lungs you could cough up a freeway. Tell me about a weeks of chaos, blood, mangled steel, and reassuring a scared and grieving mother that you’ll do everything you can to find her baby, even though you just finished digging one up. Tell me about real tragedy, watching the world collapse around you as the sky falls in. Tell me about a tower to the gods brought down by devils from hell. Tell me about your husband, or wife, son, or daughter, tell me about your father whose surprise birthday party was to be later that night…
Tell me about that, but don’t tell me what kind of latte you had, or the donut you were eating as the news came over the air… don’t tell me those things because I don’t care.
Don’t tell me those things because you have no right. It’s not about you… it’s about them.