Please Wear Your Seat Belt, You Are Not That Special
Let’s have a brutally honest chat, you majestic, invincible unicorn of the open road. You, the one who thinks the gentle ding-ding-ding of your car is a mere suggestion, an annoying nanny-state lullaby meant for lesser mortals. You believe your impeccable driving skills and cat-like reflexes make you exempt from the fundamental laws of physics. Spoiler alert: they don’t. You are not that special.
What’s the plan, exactly? Are you saving your vintage band t-shirt from an unsightly wrinkle? Or is the cold, hard embrace of a woven strap just too constricting for your free-spirited soul? Let me paint you a picture of the alternative, since you seem to prefer a more… abstract expressionist approach to automotive safety.
In the event of a crash—and yes, it will happen to you, because you share the road with other people who, shockingly, might also think they’re invincible—you become a projectile. A flailing, bone-filled meat missile launched at approximately the same speed you were just driving. That dashboard you find so aesthetically pleasing? It transforms into a cranium-crunching anvil. That windshield? It’s no longer a viewfinder; it’s a cheese grater designed for human flesh. They don’t call it a “windshield facial” for nothing, and let me tell you, it’s not a spa treatment. You’ll be picking glass out of places the sun doesn’t shine, provided you’re still conscious to feel it.
And heaven forbid you’re in the back seat playing loose and fast with the rules. In a sudden stop, you don’t just gently nudge the seat in front of you. You become a human cannonball, rocketing forward and turning the driver—you know, the one you supposedly care about—into your personal airbag. Congratulations, your negligence just turned you into a weapon that killed your best friend. Hope that extra legroom was worth it.
We get it. You’re a rebel. But there’s nothing cool about the Fire Department’s Abang Bomba 'Jaws of Life' having to peel what’s left of you off the ceiling lining. There’s nothing rebellious about your family identifying you by your dental records. The only “belt” you’ll be winning is a championship title for the Darwin Awards.
So do us all a favor. Click it. That obnoxious, simple click is the sound of you admitting you’re a fragile bag of meat and bones in a metal box moving at lethal speeds. It’s not a sign of weakness; it’s the bare minimum requirement for not being a complete idiot. The world doesn’t need another organ donor who exited the stage in a spectacularly stupid and preventable way. Wear your seat belt. You’re not special. You’re just the next statistic waiting to happen.
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