I own my problems, or I do my best. I carry the ones that fit in my purse. We are leathery and worn from torment, but I try to hold the weight of my actions with the same pride that a Kardashian would show off her designer handbag.
And they aren’t perfect, but they own their brashness and soak up the media’s insults. I have to admire that. They know they have problems, but they also know they have it better than the losers who harass them on the internet. It’s those people, those moral angels who deny their own insecurity and hatefulness. When you own every fact attached to you, you live in higher resolution.
There’s no use in disregarding what we already know, throwing science to the wastebasket and turning our nose up at opposition. Freedom, really, is access to knowledge. You do yourself a disservice. You prolong the problem.