It has not been a great June over here (though I have high hopes for July). Whole lot of people keep mistaking the rotating fan for the crapper, that’s all I’m saying. So yesterday I hied myself to the Open Pantry down the street for some good old-fashioned escapism: Doritos and french onion dip with a pint of iced cream for afters.
Apparently stress gives you the munchies? Who knew. It seemed like a good idea at the time, at any rate, so I did it.
Partway through my Doritos I’m feeling pretty good and I stop, and I think to myself, here I am, eating processed shit made from genetically modified corn and dipping it in factory-farm dairy products and I’m pretty sure most of the flavor is coming from inorganic compounds anyway, and this feels pretty good.
There was spite, is what I am saying. The comforting realization that if I want to I do still have the power to be an absolute cunt to the rest of the world. It’s like smoking a cigarette — not only is it an indulgence that’s bad for you, it’s also bad for anyone near you, for the soil the stuff used in the first place, and from a historical perspective for the entire European settlement of the North American continent and the specific subeconomies of several states.
Even when you can’t make anything better you always have the power to make them worse, I guess is the thrill behind it. At least you’re having an impact.
I am not particularly inclined toward wallowing, of course, so today I will be back to farmer’s market vegetables and hippie-dippie midnight snacks like organic curried rice, but it seemed like an educational moment. Then again, it’s equally possible that eating stoner food makes you prone to some of the same habits of thought, and this is just weed-wisdom without the weed.
I will think deeply on it while I finish off these Doritos.