by Jane Austen
by Jane Austen
(via charmedlife02)
632,000 notes. My, my.
DEAR TUMBLR:
I don’t know who writes something like that, but dear me. It does not make you a sick bastard not to reblog something. Especially if that something is a patently obvious statement such as this one here. *prods* I mean shit, what do you think I’m going to say? “Why yes, of course I wish a disease existed that put millions in agony, draining hospital resources and the hope of humanity alike! Why yes, of course I wanted my grandmother to have died of heart cancer; of course I preferred that a close family friend die after her breast cancer relapse!”
Guilt tactics are pathetic, and are an insult, and I’m not a lesser human being for wanting my internet-home to stay free of them.
Please stop.
Unless you’re going to include a link that involves donation to cancer research, or something mildly useful.
Stop.
Please.
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