Robrt Pela hates GoFundMe

Look, I’m just going to say it: I hate GoFundMe.

You know — that whole digital passing-the-hat thing. It’s somehow become a kind of moral obligation to bankroll other people’s catastrophes, whims, and poor planning. The only thing I hate more than all this New World begging is the notion that, if I don’t pony up twenty bucks for someone’s dog’s gallbladder surgery, I’m the bad guy in the story.

It wasn’t always like this. Once upon a time, charity was a quiet thing. You slipped someone a check, or you brought over a casserole, or you helped them move because you thought of yourself as a good person, or maybe you were a good person, whatever that is. Sometimes the least anyone could hope for was that you were too polite to say “no.”

But now every misfortune, every inconvenience, every “I didn’t think this through” moment is turned into a glossy, emoji-laden plea for cash. And I understand that I’m supposed to feel bad because I don’t want to subsidize a stranger’s destination wedding or their kid’s gap year in Portugal.

I know, I know. Some people really need help. Of course they do. The world is full of medical emergencies and sudden tragedies. We all know people who’ve been dealt a hand so cruel it would make Charles Dickens blush. But somewhere along the way, the platform became less about need and more a kind of public performance of hardship, curated for maximum sympathy and minimum accountability. And I’m expected to pay for it. Literally.

Amber Victoria Singer

/

KJZZ

I scroll through my social media feed and it’s a parade of financial nakedness. “Help me buy a new laptop.” No. “Help me fund my dream of becoming a DJ.” What? “Help me move to Los Angeles so I can pursue my passion for being discovered.”

These are not emergencies. These are things adults are supposed to figure out on their own, preferably without shaking down their social media acquaintances like a digital street busker.

Here’s the deal: These folks don’t need our help. They need a budget. Or a job. They need to stop treating their social circle like an ATM with a conscience.

If you’re outraged that I dare to have this opinion, that’s partly because this behavior has become so normalized. Someone posts a GoFundMe link and the comments fill with applause, as though asking for money is an act of bravery: “I’m so proud of you for reaching out. 😢” Proud of what? That they’ve discovered a way to monetize their misfortune? That they’ve outsourced personal responsibility to the kindness of others?

And don’t get me started on the performative gratitude — the “thanks to you” videos that look like hostage tapes filmed in a Hobby Lobby. This is transactional charity with a ring light.

Maybe what I hate most is the way that all this virtual begging has rewired our expectations of one another. I’m no longer just a friend or a colleague or someone you sat near in Earth Science class 50 years ago. I’m a potential donor. A revenue stream. A line item in your crisis budget. And if I don’t participate, if I don’t click the link and cough up a little something, I’m also…the villain. The cold-hearted miser. The man who hates dogs, and children, and helping others.

But here’s the truth: I work hard for my money. You think it’s easy to get on the radio and tell people to go to hell? Also, I budget. I plan. I save. I buy expensive insurance in case my spleen should burst or someone should run a red light and plow into my car. I make choices — sometimes unglamorous ones — so that I can take care of myself and the people I love. And I resent being made to feel like that’s not enough. That I’m supposed to bankroll the world because the world has decided that asking is easier than doing.

I know how this makes me sound. Like an old meanie. Fine. I’ll own it. I’ll be the cranky old guy, shaking his fist at the digital sky. But I refuse to feel guilty for not funding someone’s elective dental work or their dream of opening a vegan candle shop.

I’ll help when it matters. I’ll show up with a casserole, or a bucket when your basement floods. But I won’t be shamed into underwriting someone else’s life choices. I won’t be emotionally blackmailed by a platform that’s turned compassion into commerce.

And I won’t apologize for hating GoFundMe. I’ve earned that right.