I am a passive weakling, scared of tough guys. I dislike aggression and conflict, and I embrace my depression. My opinion about fighting with intimidators is that it’s morally wrong, and it makes me sad. Fighting often leads to broken bones, and that can really hurt. Therefore, I would allow someone to step right up and slap my face, then walk away without meeting the slightest consequence. If you throw sticks and stones at me, I will simply pretend that I’m deceased. You could even pour a bucket of fried chicken onto my head, and I would freeze and be panic-stricken: I would neither retaliate nor so much as dream of fighting back. Say that I excuse myself from the dinner table, and you come and take my chair, so that when I return, I see that you are now sitting in the place where I had been sitting; and you are eating all my food — in this case, I would just stand there and blink: to avoid feeling uptight, I would not mention the mix-up. I would never bother anyone. I would even allow you to break my arm, instead of requesting that you please stop bending it. Go ahead and take my car and drive it away — just keep it; there’s no need to ask my permission. Whatever you do, I’ll put up with it: You’re the boss. Feel free to call me vicious names; I won’t complain. Ridicule my hobbies and interests; I can’t get any sadder than I already am. Harass me, tell me I’m stupid, pick my life apart, make fun of my appearance and demeanor — I’ll remain standing quietly and maybe start crying. You can even break down the bathroom door, while I’m using the toilet, and come bursting in, dragging along with you a woman whom I have a crush on, and I’ll just blush and say: “Sorry — my mistake.”
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