Without much cause

I’m a rebel.  I’m not the classic TV rebel, in that I don’t wear leather, smoke, or drive a motorcycle.  Still, I think I qualify because when given a command my immediate inclination is to do the opposite, or at the very least, not comply.  I think this stems from my deep rooted aversion to doing things solely because others want it, or even being seen as doing such, but that’s not the topic of this post.

This topic comes up because I hang out with opinionated self sheltering young females accustomed to issuing commands on a bi-secondly basis.  Inevitably some are directed at me, and unfortunately I apparently went over some limit today and was a tidbit snippy with one of the females.  Not really bad at all, but the event prompted the thought process I’m expelling in this post.

Some commands are worse than others, in that they inflame some other sensibility of mine beyond my gut level dislike of orders.  The one that prompted all this is, “You’re done.”  This is pretty new to me, but it’s how these females try to end conversations they don’t like.  It usually comes up whenever I mention nipples, tongues, bodily fluids, the fact that sex exists, dismemberment, stuff like that.

This is a problematic command.  First, it’s a command.  Second, it’s a censorship.  I understand people have the right to try to shape their environment, which includes trying to stop me from exposing them to reality, but I also have free speech rights, so suck it up.  Third, it offers nothing itself.  I recognize that I sometimes utter sentences that could be interpreted to be very similar in tone to the command I’m currently dissecting, but, I think, mine differ.  Usually, I try to steer conversations with sentence types other than order, like query, or tangent, or non sequitur, and usually these conversation manipulations include some rationale for the interference, and/or commentary on the subject.

Here’s the simple version.  I don’t like being bossed around.  I don’t like being bossed around by 50-year-olds with big brains and doctorates, guys twice my size, people with guns, badges, or official titles, people with large bank accounts, people with hordes of followers, military training, or “contacts”, so it’s not surprising that I don’t like being bossed around by pipsqueak coeds.