It’s really this simple:
If you have a can of gasoline, you understand architecture just fine.
If you have an atomic bomb and the plane to carry it in, you understand Hiroshima well enough.
If you can aim a gun, you understand human anatomy splendidly. And if you aren’t any good with a pistol, there’s always a shotgun.
Complaining about Donald Trump being stupid and ignorant while he’s kicking your ass shows he understands playground rules better than you do. Who do you think is going to save you from the bully if there is no teacher on the scene?
I don’t care for horror movies. I don’t watch them. But I read about everything, and I know they teach this lesson:
When the call is coming from inside the house, no one can save you but yourself.
Don’t take that too literally. Horror movies set it up so that the heroine–that’s you, in the current horror show–are stripped of your friends, your family, all the cloud of support around you. That’s how moral fiction works, stripped to the essentials to teach a lesson.
In This Real Life? You have friends. You have family. You have the kindness of strangers. You have human solidarity, one of the three foundations of my own spirituality. Thanks to all that, you have agency and power. You’d best use them.
Or lose them. It’s up to you. It’s always been you, my love.