I’m not one of those people who gets personally offended by spoilers. When I hear people complain about them, I become that whiny older person in the room. I start to use words like “this new generation,” “coddled,” and “entitled.” What I know now is that I was speaking from a place of privilege. Spoilers never actually spoiled anything for me. Knowing what was at the end of a story didn’t make watching it any less satisfying. Sometimes it could make a show or movie better. That all changed last summer when I abruptly stopped watching Orange Is the Black because word got to me that my beloved Poussey dies.