Whiners: What It Really Means to Complain


Recently Donald Trump was accused as being a huge whiner. Now I don’t want to talk any more about his stupidity. I say let him be the republican nominee. Let’s bring on the presidential debates.

But I do want to discuss the concept of whining.

I’m a fan, BTW.

I whine all the time. Mostly to myself. But sometimes to my long suffering friends and family. To me, it’s okay to whine as long as no one hears you. Sort of like a tree in the forest.

I complain because I can. It’s my birthright. You see, I am lucky enough to live in a country where I can complain about minor things like how my feet hurt or I’m hungry or tired.

As I’ve never known real pain, the constant kind of death and disease, of having no voice. I’ve never known true hunger, in both a physical and emotional sense. I’ve never gone days without sleep, for fear of what might happen when I wake.

When I think of what others in the world have to suffer, I feel ashamed by my minor complaints. I pray that one day, everyone, can whine about the heat, cold or how that wino on the bus smells.

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