My Unfiltered Opinions

My parents want me to marry and have a kid, like it's just the natural order of things. Like I'm supposed to accept it, smile, and play along because "that's life." But here's the truth: If I ever had a kid, I wouldn't love them. Not in the way a parent is supposed to.

The baby would just exist: a thing that happened to me, not something I wanted. A responsibility thrown into my lap, something I'd have to deal with, not something I'd cherish. Sure, I can take care of someone else's kid for a while. Feed them, watch them, make sure they don't get hurt. But actual emotional attachment? That's not in me. I don't like kids, I don't feel anything deep for them, and I never will.

And I know this because I've seen it before. I had a cat, and even then, I barely took care of it. I should've, but I didn't. Not because I'm cruel, but because the connection wasn't there. It was just a thing in my house, something I interacted with when it was convenient. That's exactly what would happen if I had a child.

I have OCD, and the thoughts that come with it are dark, intrusive, and terrifying. Thoughts that tell me to hurt, to kill, to destroy. I don't act on them, but they're there, whispering, lurking. And if those thoughts are already haunting me, why the hell should I put a child anywhere near that?

I am not built for marriage. I am not built for children. And no amount of pushing, guilt-tripping, or "you'll change your mind" will make it true. If anything, forcing me into that life would destroy me. And in the process, destroy whoever gets trapped in it with me.

I don't feel things the way other people do. I know I'm supposed to feel happy or sad or excited or whatever the hell. But honestly, most of the time, I'm just… empty. Numb. Not dead, not really—just not alive either. Like, I don't get it. I should feel something, right? But all I can muster is anger. Or, sometimes, tears. But they're not even my tears. It's like my body just decides to cry for the hell of it, but there's no emotion behind it.

And then, there's the anger. It builds up and I don't know how to get rid of it. It's like there's all this stuff inside me—stuff I don't even know how to process. So I just bottle it up until it comes out in some way I can't control, like a punch to the wall or the silence that feels too loud.

I'm aroace, and it feels like everyone's playing this game I don't want to be a part of. People talk about love and relationships like it's the whole point of existence, but it's all noise to me. I'm not missing out. I don't care. I'm not interested. But that doesn't stop them from pushing it.

I get disgusted by the smallest things people do. The way they talk, the way they breathe too loud, the way they smile, or don't. Everything feels like a game of show-and-tell to me. And I'm just sitting there, observing, quietly, waiting for it all to fall apart so I can leave.

Maybe that's why I think I'm a sociopath. Maybe I am. Maybe I'm just asocial. I don't care to greet people, to fake the niceties of conversation. I just observe. I see everything but I don't engage. I watch. I'm good at that. The world keeps moving, and I'm just a bystander, waiting for something to make me feel. But it never does.

Why do I reject help and rather be alone? It's complicated. It's not that I want to be alone. Honestly, I do want friends. The problem is that the effort it takes to be friends with someone, the emotional labor, the constant back-and-forth of messages, learning about their lives, their problems, their needs—it's exhausting.

I start out excited, like, "oh, this person's cool, they like Half-Life too." I'm the first one to hit follow or reply because I want to connect. But somewhere along the way, I lose interest. It's like the more I learn about them, the less I care. The messages pile up, and the deeper the conversations go, the more drained I feel.

And with real-life people, it's even worse. It's not like I can ignore them or put my phone down and pretend I'm busy. They're right there, in front of me. So I nod, I fake it, I play the part. I go through the motions, just waiting for them to get to the point where they stop talking.

Maybe it's also because I hate conflict. Avoiding drama has become an instinct. And that probably ties back to childhood—when I used to try and make friends but somehow always ended up feeling like an outsider. I don't know what it was. But they'd always ask me, "Why are you like that?" And I'd be like, I don't know. I don't mean to be different, it's just how I am.

I guess it's just easier to be alone. At least that way, I don't have to worry about letting anyone down or pretending to be something I'm not. At least that way, I'm not wasting my energy trying to be what they want me to be, and I can just exist without the pressure.

The frustration of needing space but also wanting connection—it's like being caught in a constant tug-of-war between two sides of myself that don't align. It's like I'm living in a weird paradox. I want people close, but then when they're too close, I just want to shut down and push them away.

I crave that closeness, but as soon as it feels too real, too intimate, it makes me feel trapped, suffocated, like I'm being smothered. And then I get angry. Not at them, but at myself. Because it's like I should want them around. I should be comfortable with affection, with real connection. But instead, I just get this overwhelming need to be alone.

It's like being a cat. I'll rub up against you, purr, get all warm and fuzzy, but the moment you try to pet me, I'll swat you away or run off. I crave that attention, but when it's actually there, I can't handle it. It makes me feel vulnerable, exposed, like I'm being forced into something I'm not ready for.

But here's the thing: if it's fictional characters or my OCs? That's a whole different story. I can give them all the attention, all the affection, all the emotional connection without feeling that suffocating pressure. It's like they exist on my terms, and they're not going to demand anything from me.

The problem is that real people don't come with that kind of control. They don't fit neatly into the boxes I make for myself, and it messes with the comfort I'm used to. I wish it were easier to find that balance between wanting people close and needing my space.

Reddit is weird. Like, really weird. It's this place where you can find the most random and helpful advice, see people solving true crime cases better than actual detectives, and witness absolute internet genius in the form of memes. But it's also where you find some of the most judgmental, pessimistic, and downright miserable people who will drag any conversation into the ground.

It's like Redditors will figure out the name of a murderer based on the reflection in a spoon from a 240p video, but ask them to find their dad and suddenly it's a blank screen. The level of research skills here is unmatched—post a blurry photo of an ancient artifact, and within an hour, someone has traced its entire historical background. But post about a basic life problem, and half the responses will be people projecting their own bitterness.

There's this weird divide. On one side, you have communities that are genuinely helpful, sharing advice, experiences, and creative ideas. But then you wander into another thread, and it's like stepping into a black hole of negativity. People will pick apart every word you say, twist it, assume the worst, and argue just to argue.

And don't even get me started on the constant gender wars. The amount of posts complaining about the "dating scene" is insane. Reddit makes it sound like no one is dating, no one is happy, and everyone is just miserable and blaming the other gender for it. But step outside of Reddit? People are finding relationships, being happy, and actually living life.

But for all its problems, I can't leave. Because I still like Reddit. I like the weird opinions, the random creations, the discussions that go from serious to stupid in seconds. It's entertaining. It's frustrating. It's addictive. I love it, but I also kinda hate it. And maybe that's just the Reddit experience.

Can we talk about how unnecessary sex scenes are in most movies? Like, I'm here to watch a heist go down, or some guy punch another guy through a wall, not to see two people going at it like they're possessed by demons. Seriously. It's like, one second, it's all explosions and action, and the next, it's slow music, weird lighting, and some woman arching her back in ways that'd snap a normal spine. Why? For what?

It's not even about being a prude. It's just... why is this here? Half the time it doesn't even add to the story. It's like the director went, "Hmm, we've had enough car chases and gunfights. Let's throw in a random sex scene so it's edgy." I didn't come here for that. I came here for the plot, the drama, the fight scenes, the intensity—not to sit awkwardly while the movie turns into softcore for five minutes.

And it's always the same. Slow, dramatic shots, heavy breathing, a lot of weird close-ups that make you think, "Is this even comfortable for them?" Like, I get it, they're in love or whatever. Cool. But I don't need a full breakdown of how it happened. Just imply it. Close the damn door. Cut to the morning after. Keep it moving.

It feels like such a cheap way to grab attention too. Like the movie's trying to be more "mature" but just ends up looking awkward.

The way people shit on small boobs like they're a fucking design flaw pisses me off to no end. Like, how did we reach a point where having smaller tits is treated like a defect instead of just… a normal variation of the human body? You have people straight-up calling AFAB folks "no boobs" as if every single person doesn't have at least some fat and tissue there. They exist. They're just not massive. What the fuck do you mean "no boobs"? You blind??

And don't even get me started on the insecurity this bullshit creates. The way society hypes up big boobs like they're the golden standard of femininity makes people with smaller chests feel like they're lacking something. Like they need to compensate for it. I remember stuffing my bra with socks, and of course, some classmates noticed because kids are demons. That kind of shame sticks with you.

And the worst part? There are actual advantages to having smaller boobs, but nobody talks about that. No back pain, no struggling to find bras that actually fit without suffocating you, no constant bouncing when you run. You can sleep on your belly in pure comfort without feeling like you're crushing yourself. But no, let's ignore all that and act like the only thing that matters is how much cleavage you can shove into a push-up bra.

Bodies aren't trends. Small boobs aren't a fucking defect. They're normal, they're fine, and anyone who says otherwise can go choke.

Let me tell you something about those people who gaslight you about mental health. These assholes act like mental illness is just some choice you can snap out of when you're in a bad mood or feeling a little stressed. They throw out their little "just get over it" or "everyone has bad days" like you haven't been through hell just to get through a single day.

These are the same people who'll turn into experts when it comes to your struggles, telling you to "think positive" or "you're just overthinking it." They'll make it seem like you're the one at fault for having an emotional or psychological issue. It's not "just in your head." Mental health issues are real and no, they're not something that you can just snap out of with a little pep talk.

These people love to sit on their high horses acting like they've mastered life, not understanding that mental health is not about being weak—it's about surviving something that's literally built into your brain chemistry or trauma. But sure, go ahead, tell a person who's barely keeping their shit together to just "try harder."

What's even worse? Those people who say "everyone goes through it," like because they've had a bad week or felt "down" for a couple of days, that's the same thing as dealing with long-term, crushing mental health battles. No. Just because you had a rough weekend doesn't mean you get to understand what it's like to live with a constant weight in your chest, to spend hours just trying to find the energy to leave your house, to feel like you're drowning in your own head.

The lack of empathy is infuriating. These people are quick to invalidate, quick to tell you to toughen up, quick to throw around their self-righteous bullshit about how they've dealt with their shit and you should be able to too. If you're not going to offer actual support, just shut up and let the people who need help get it without your judgment hanging over them.

Sex is overrated. Yeah, I said it. And before some dude with a cum-stained keyboard tries to argue, let me just clarify: I'm a virgin, I'll die a virgin, and honestly? I don't give a fuck. Sex is like a shitty movie everyone hypes up—Sex: The Movie (2014), directed by Society. And then when you think it's over, here comes the sequel—Sex 2: Electric Boogaloo, except now it's a never-ending franchise and people act like if you're not watching, you're missing out on the meaning of life.

Like, sex is fine or whatever, but people treat it like it's the ultimate goal. "Oh, you haven't had sex yet? Bro, you're missing out." Missing out on what? Awkward fumbling, weird smells, the risk of catching something just because someone decided to raw dog a Tinder hookup, the possibility of bad hygiene, the uncomfortable post-nut regret, the existential crisis afterward, the pressure to fake enjoyment, and the awkward "so… what now?" moment when it's over?

And don't even get me started on how society is obsessed with it. Every ad, every song, every damn toothpaste commercial somehow circles back to "fuckability." It's like we're all trapped in one big PornHub ad, and if you're not participating, you're defective. People act like virginity is this ticking time bomb, like the second you hit 20, your junk just self-destructs.

At the end of the day, sex is just another human function. You eat, you shit, you fuck. Cool, congrats. It's not some sacred experience. It's not the meaning of existence. I'm not a prude. I just think there's more to life than chasing the elusive orgasm. That's all. Some of us just don't give a fuck about it, and that's fine. Now let me be a virgin in peace.

I'm so DONE with people defending companies like Shein and Temu. SHEIN IS THE ABSOLUTE WORST, and if you're still supporting them, you're a piece of shit. Do you even give a damn about anything besides getting your cheap, plastic-ass clothes? No, because you're too busy being a lazy, ignorant, selfish person to understand what it actually costs to make that $10 t-shirt you think is so cute.

Shein is the EPITOME OF EVIL. They steal designs from independent creators and then sell them for a fraction of the price. Oh, and they're not just stealing money, they're stealing LIVES. You know that toxic stuff that's in their clothes? Toxins that can burn your skin, cause rashes, and harm your body.

These companies are also just DESTROYING THE PLANET. Their fast fashion garbage ends up in landfills and doesn't even break down. That stuff you're wearing? It's going to be rotting in the ground for HUNDREDS OF YEARS and poisoning the earth. You're sitting there wearing a $10 shirt while the Earth is choking on your fast fashion habits.

And don't give me that weak excuse of "I don't have the money to buy other clothes." There's no excuse for ignorance. There are ways to get clothes that don't come with child labor, pollution, and cultural theft. But if you're too lazy to look, too selfish to care about the people suffering for your wardrobe, then you're just another part of the problem.

STOP BUYING FROM THEM. Stop supporting companies that are actively making the world worse. If you want to be part of the solution, start RESPECTING DESIGNERS, WORKERS, AND THE PLANET.