And you’re not obliged to do so even if they do:
I gave an opinion that was, for me, uncensored. From the heart and heartfelt and, let me assure you, not given in cruel or hateful way. See, usually I am woefully chameleon in my dealings with people. I try, when asked the dreaded “So what do YOU think about that?” to tailor my answer to either vaguely enhance the asker’s already-formed stance or failing that, to turn the conversation aside to more neutral targets, like “Nice weather we’re having” or “What kind of lube do you like best?”
Luckily, due to years of subtle indoctrination toward all I encounter, most people don’t ask my opinion because they think I’m about as dumb as a box of hair. This suits me fine, and in fact enhances my calm.
Still don’t know what the three seashells are for.
The result of this honesty was an abrupt and complete shutting out. Bang. Social media door slammed in my face and block, block, block around the clock on all other fronts.
Now this is the surprising part. I’m not dead. It didn’t kill me. It didn’t even really inflict a lot of damage — emotional, psychic, mental, metaphysical, existential, or oatmeal. (Just testing to see if you’re paying attention and gods love ya if you are.)
So I’ve decided that while my opinion might not be popular, or accepted, or even couched in terms the receiver can dig, I’m still going to give it.
Like Alice says, no more Mister Nice Guy.
Number of people I have stricken from my social-media connections this year for having Improper Opinions: zero. Because that’s the way I am. I don’t want a freaking echo chamber; I don’t want a procession of parrots telling me I’m so right.