I don’t care about blacks anymore.
I’m simply worn out with them. Exhausted by their constant demands, their neediness, their helplessness, their hypocrisy, their never ending problems, their inability to take advantage of the myriad opportunities practically delivered to them, their ungratefulness, their refusal to take responsibility for their own lives or accept the consequences of their actions.
I’ve just thrown in the towel. I can’t keep caring about problems that I obviously can’t do anything about. Especially when they have brought at least some of it on themselves, or when they won’t make the lifestyle changes necessary to succeed or to overcome or avoid their problems.
There comes a point, where I just quit listening. When racist graffiti is discovered on a college campus, or on a black person’s house, my reaction is no longer outrage, disgust, and sympathy for a victim of a hate crime. It’s outrage and disgust alright, and it comes a few days later when it is almost always revealed to be yet another racial hoax perpetrated by black people. I really don’t want to hear them tearfully recounting that heartrending moment when they “discovered” some mean white KKK member had snuck into their laundry room, completely unseen and invisible to video cameras, to scribble “Trump ’16” and “Die ******s” on the wall. At this point, I’ll turn the channel.
I applaud those who are successful, and overcome challenges, and I wish them well. But just like my white colleagues, if they make poor decisions, spend their money foolishly, refuse the free education available to them, have children they can’t afford, get involved in drugs and criminality, I have little sympathy. And I’m not likely to make an effort to be friendly with them or get to know them. I’ll be polite, but I don’t particularly care to associate with them, white or black.