Something called empathy
”ËI’ll distribute my sympathies any fucking way I feel fit.’
I can’t remember the last time my classmates and I were sent scattering in panic into an achingly cold lake to evade someone decorated as a figure of protection and trust, incongruously stalking and obliterating us systematically.
Nor can I remember the last time a friend or loved one died of a long-anticipated self-destruction.
But I AM imbued with something called empathy, which, for you acolytes of the ”Ëmeh’ generation, is a retardation of the emotional make-up of most human beings, which lumbers the bearer with the hassle of having ghost-echo appropriations of someone else’s misfortune or grief. In short, it’s a bit like being a crap Superhero.
Big hitter on Twitter @TheFagCasanova (sorry for using the word ”Ëfag’ again, Dad’), angrily rebuked accusations that perspective be maintained in the wake of Winehouse’s massacre-tally crashing.
“To those saying “Winehouse’s death isn’t as bad as the Norway tragedy”Â.
The news isn’t a misery based pissing contest. You are idiots.”Â
Which is just about the only way you can make yourself feel better for secretly feeling more sympathy for someone whose long drawn-out self-gratification/abuse resulted in their long-expected death, than the violent murder of 68 foreigners in a holiday camp. While a thought-provoking, and stultifying leap to the peak of the moral high ground, the Fag was too busy crowing his own cod-philosophical histrionics to take advantage of the startling perspective up there; those innumerable deflated cartoon ghosts seen on the shoreline of an alien land we have little-to-no cultural reference points-for (though there are those among us who fleetingly wondered if someone could account for Varg Vikernes’s whereabouts).
Our Facebook profiles might say otherwise, but most of us don’t have as many friends as died in Friday’s attack, so I’m going to go out on a limb here and say Winehouse’s death ISN’T as bad as the Norway massacre. It’s not worse than the Dallas Roller Rink birthday party shooting on Sunday which killed 6 and terrified dozens of others who fled screaming in their skates. It’s not worse than the 5 people callously vanquished with insulin at Stepping Hill Hospital in Stockport (Rebecca Leighton is 27, what is it with that age?). It’s not even worse than the hapless twat so wrapped-up in the childlike wonder at his soaring kite he fell 50 feet to his death on the Dunstable Downs. Some things we just instinctively know, I’m not sure how or why. The Dunblaine Massacre, for example was worse than Rod Hull falling off his roof in a rainstorm trying to sort his ariel-out so he could watch football. Emu would be the first to admit it.
Amy Winehouse’s talent hasn’t been called into question, neither, as far as I’m aware has her character – the method of her own undoing however, has. Who can argue with that? Her talents were such that they couldn’t be taught by any of the stage schools she attended, and her body of work speaks for itself, and will continue to do so long after our own anonymous toddle-off this mortal coil. It’s merely my opinion, but I think her self-destructive-end should have been met with annoyance & disappointment, as well as grief. Not tributes of cigarettes and alcohol, or romantic notions of her singing with the eternally 27 year-old Heavenly All Stars. But that’s just me.
As neutrals, I think we should be entrusted our own judgment for what qualifies as worthy of our sympathy. There isn’t a mathematic formula for apportioning it, but those that rejected the argument purely for its basis in numbers are deludedly trying to excuse themselves. The only people truly equipped with the right to evaluate each tragedy’s relative heft are those closest to the victims themselves. It’s this logic that steers my heart when attempting to comprehend the senseless loss of innocents. My own personal sympathies are firmly with a nation who had their children abruptly riven from existence, and I’d like to exercise my right to say it. It’s also worthwhile you having to hear me. Its imperative people are reminded they aren’t the bright and shiny centre of the universe on a semi-regular basis, lest they turn into solipsistic pricks like Anders Behring Breivik.