by Evan O’Leary-Lee
These soft ass libs have been taking safe spaces too far. I’m opposed to safe spaces, and if you’ve got a pair, you are too. Why should I have to baby proof my message for someone else’s comfort? Maybe it makes me uncomfortable to censor myself, did those cucks ever think about that? In the interest of protecting free speech, and not allowing those bitch ass posers to dictate what I say, I will now, in agonizing detail, discuss the slow and horrifying death of your paternal grandmother, a memory that haunts you to this very day.
It might seem extreme, but the only way to show your love for the first amendment is to sit here and read every word as I recount how your grandma receded into a shell of herself right before your very eyes. Does this feel too intense for you? Should I preface this with a trigger warning? Or are you gonna suck it up?
That’s what I thought.
Remember how close you were to your grandma? She picked you up from kindergarten every day, through sleet or snow she was there, with a big smile on her face, ready to walk the four blocks home and regale you with stories of how she met pap pap. After Derek Dirks said you had fat eyes she was there to tell you how beautiful you are, and to never let anyone else put you down. When you close your eyes you can still picture opening the door to her house, the scent of her muffins immediately invading your nostrils, running into her arms and knowing that everything was gonna be ok. She was a truly special woman. Now remember how afraid she looked the last time you saw her? The pain in her eyes, the needles and tubes ran through her body as if she was a pin cushion. She was so weak, you couldn’t even hug her due to the bed sores.
It was tough after the divorce, but grandma was always there for you. Whether it was math homework, a torn t-shirt, or your changing body, there was no problem grandma couldn’t solve. Except for the tumors and the Alzheimer’s that lead to her demise, of course. How you holding up, bitch? Wish this were a “safe space”, where you wouldn’t have to read word after word of explicit detail regarding the emotionally traumatic loss of a loved one? Well too bad you Dirty Dem, ‘cause I’m coming at you with some more sad shit.
By the end she didn’t remember your name, your face, or any of those trips to the library where you discovered your love of reading. I wonder what the most painful part for her was, among the myriad of diseases and ailments that were the causes of her death. Obviously, the most painful part for you about the whole ordeal was the fact that you never truly got to say goodbye, unable to connect with the husk of the woman you knew and loved.
Tears? Really? Doesn’t that seem like a bit of an over-reaction. I’m only reminding you of how it tore you apart to see your family bicker and destroy itself clamoring over grandma’s possessions. That quilt was supposed to be yours, but turns out pinky promises to her darling angel aren’t considered valid by the rule of law.
I bet your grandma would be disappointed her little teddy bear grew up to be a pansy ass bitch.
Evan O’Leary-Lee is currently a freshman at Tulane University. He has studied sketch writing and improv at the Philly Improv Theater.