My generation was supposed to be the most fortunate one in the modern era. We were born into the end of the longest cold conflict in history, where the threat of total nuclear annihilation was ubiquitous and the world seemed divided down the middle in ideological warfare. I was born a few months after the the first pieces of the Berlin Wall were chipped away by joyous crowds celebrating the end of a divided country. I never had to know the stress of nuclear sabre-rattling or arms escalation: the US was, by all accounts, left as the lone power in the world.
That bred a new wave of patriotism and American pride throughout the 90s. Children heard in schools about how the US was the greatest country in the world while we sang all the patriotic songs and pledged our allegiance to the flag, even if we didn't understand the pseudo-contractual terms of the agreement. We were told we could do anything and be anything we wanted. We were promised the world. We couldn't understand nuance; we were children. We took it literally.
Being critical of the US throughout the 90s was tantamount to being a lone voice screaming in a desert. The economy was expanding massively. The most nationalist mouthpieces would point to Russia, in shambles after the end of the Cold War, or to Europe, where the newly formed EU was already withering against its first challenge in the collapse of the Soviet satellite states on the border and the refugee flows that emerged from there. Any problems the US faced, they would argue, were small beans on the grand scale of international perception. No one would care about mass uninsured or systemic racism: the civil rights movement already happened, they'd say. America was equal. America was free. Even when republicans and democrats alike pushed for draconian crime laws to punish even the lightest offenders, the country was still free.
9/11 pushed that hardline patriotism into nationalist xenophobia. Anyone not for the war was anti-American. Anyone not looking to support the troops was a traitor. No matter if the Bush administration used that war to savagely curtail the basic principles of civil rights or to profit off the pain of people living thousands of miles away; they attacked us, no matter the reason, and we'd make them bleed.
It was around then that my view of the land of the free became jaundiced.
Global warming was an ignored threat despite the growing consensus of the scientific community, and the US refused to take any action to ensure a safer, cleaner environment. Here arose another round of nationalist mouthpieces pointing at China and saying 'their emissions are rising, they're worse', as if we didn't live on the same planet and share the same atmosphere.
And then the worst financial crisis since the Great Depression happened right as my generation was entering adulthood. Those who perpetrated the whole thing received plenty of government bailout funds while the average person languished. All the banks that knowingly signed off on bad mortgages and then used those bad mortgages as fluff off of which to profit faced no consequences beyond having to pay back the bailout money over time and some trading restrictions.
The job market was dead for people just entering it. Even after finishing undergrad, entry-level wages were stagnant and barely liveable for metro areas. Attaining a job was competitive without paradoxical years of experience for entry-level. The economy was still reeling. Student debt was, and is, at record levels.
Obama's election granted hope. The promise of universal healthcare was alluring. But the disinformation thrown around by both media and members of congress and the inherent conservatism and fear of the word 'socialism' ended the possibility of having such a thing, leading to a disjointed, byzantine system too easily deconstructed by its opponents.
And then he increased the use of the drone strike program to target 'enemy combatants' abroad, though the term was used to encompass any male above the age of 16 regardless of whether or not they had anything to do with global terrorism; renewed the Patriot Act, and continued allowing new sites for gas drilling (fracking) and expanding capacities for oil production in the US even while he touted his beliefs in global warming during his campaign and while every successive year became the warmest on record. He refused to prosecute or investigate the Bush administration for war crimes. And when Edward Snowden revealed that the NSA had been actively spying on Americans, that it could turn every phone and computer into a microphone and access a webcam without showing it had been activated, the Obama administration enacted counter-propaganda.
This isn't to say Obama didn't have his successes, but the hope he carried with him into office hit a wall. Whether it was self-imposed or the strictures of the office, it's hard to say.
And then a preening racist narcissist got elected president. And beyond all the other things he's done, his completely inability to think of anything besides himself has caused ~150,000 deaths due to his mismanagement of the pandemic as of this writing, and plunged the country into the makings of a deep recession, if not depression. There is an impending homelessness crisis, with millions unable to pay rent because of being laid off from the pandemic, which also means millions more are without health insurance in a time of a health crisis.
The best development over the past decade has been the proliferation of camera phones to finally show the discrimination that black Americans had faced for decades, but white America ignored. How that will develop is hard to say, and whether the recent protests are more of a reaction against Trump rather than a movement to truly end systemic racism is a question that can be answered once he's gone.
But all the hope and patriotic fervor that inculcated itself into the children of the 90s now finds itself at loggerheads between the blind nationalism of uncritical thought and the dream of America promised to many, but given to few. It's now been 2 decades where we've seen the gap between the richest and everyone else rise exponentially, where we've seen global temperatures rise without the necessary actions taken by the US and China to lower CO2 emissions, where we've seen the slow decline of a world power whose leaders continue to proclaim it to be the 'greatest country in the world' while millions of its citizens barely subsisted; and I wish I could speak for everyone in my generation when I say that we were lied to, that not everything is possible, that all those promises we were given about being free and happy and able to achieve our dreams were hollow, because there will always be those for whom the world is an open road paved with countless opportunities, free from speedbumps or roadblocks. They'll never struggle and likely won't be majorly affected by the repercussions of things like global warming, systemic injustice, bankruptcy due to health issues, or the like; we can only hope they have the introspection and the empathy to know they are lucky.
The children of peace were promised the world. We were promised infinite pathways to success. What we were given was manipulation by those in positions of responsibility, war, struggle, inequality, and a slow march towards a self-made catastrophe. But we were also given awareness, critique, and the ability to question authority that proclaims itself in absolute justice. Whether that lives or dies as we age will be a result of our apathy, or passion. So defines my generation, for now.
Monday, July 27, 2020
Wednesday, May 13, 2020
The Roaring 20s is Over
10 years ago on this date, I made a frenetic blog post about the end of my teens and the sudden realisation that, yes, I have to be a bit responsible for my own success in life. Beyond just hitting 20, I was also ending my second year of undergrad at the time and in the middle of moving out of my dorm to face another summer of soupy humidity and trying my hardest to become a wage slave. Oddly enough, my third year in undergrad was one of my best despite still feeling unsettled about where I was going and what I wanted to do. However, in February 2011 I sent myself an email that arrived yesterday, on my 30th birthday. It read:
The funny thing about the email is that, in the back of my mind, the only part I remembered about it over 9 years was the name of [NAME REDACTED] even though that's the part that matters the least, now that I'm the person I am. A few years ago I faced a choice of whether or not to take another desk job, move to another state, work longer hours for more money; it was a very real, very pressing future after NYC malaise settled under my skin, just like the midnight sewage fumes that wafted from the sewer grates and clung to my clothes with every walk to the train station after work. Even though I didn't explicitly remember what I wrote in the email, I still had the sense to know the monotonous work-oriented life wasn't something I wanted. There's no point in dedicating life to work if there's little life left to live outside of it, at least for me.
And now that I've hit 30, I can look back on my 20s as being just as formative as my teenage years were. Just like it took getting a bit more mature to realise that I should actually give half a shit about my academia, it took getting ground up and thrown around by the private sector to make me realise that I hate generic office culture, I hate dress codes, I hate cover sheets for work reports, I hate office gossip, I hate riding the same goddamn train every day and seeing the same dead faces time and again that shamble off with zombie steps in their pre-determined routine, I hate faceless corporate overlords who are so far removed from the work at the bottom rung that they only serve to make those jobs more difficult by piling on more responsibilities and refusing to pay more or make the job more comfortable, I hate the pain in my back from carrying my bag up and down 20 NYC blocks because it saves me a few thousand on transport every year, I hate sycophantic people who try to win favour with others through food, I hate being forced to choose between trudging through a blizzard or using one of my vacation days that I'd been saving for a holiday, I hate being given the hand-me-down catering leftovers from whenever the bigwigs have a meeting, I hate having a variable work schedule and having to get up at 2am when the train reeks of piss and sweat, I hate having an idea on how to improve work processes only to have supervisors shrug it off because 'that's just how we do it'; at this point I'd rather wear LEGO pants than go back to that.
But my 20s wasn't just about discovering what I hate; if it was only that, well, I'd probably enter my 30s well equipped with a walker and a sign demanding kids turn down their damn music and stop playing in my street. I love clean air; I love to write, obviously; I love going to my local for the weekly pub quiz; I love sitting inside to the patter of rainfall; I love martial arts; I love trying to help others as best I can; I love my friends. And throughout that all, it's safe to say (if my continuing knowledge of Star Trek and Harry Potter minutiae is any indication) that I haven't lost passion about those things that comfort me.
Did I have another existential crisis? Well, it wouldn't be the end of my early years if I didn't have a minor one. It wasn't too pronounced, at least not as much as the end of my teens; maybe I've accepted that as I get older, my age is just the thing my body reminds me of in the occasional back and knee pain. So long as I can retain a bit of delight in my passions, the only thing that will age is my body. I'll get wiser, sure, try to learn from my mistakes, but that doesn't mean I'll stop making them. That was one of my ultimate fears with 'playing it safe' and taking another monotous job that saps time: I'd look at myself 20 years from now, see the thinned hair, the lines under my eyes, and wonder what's happened with my years. Pushing yourself to change and tackle new things is the breath of life; without it, I'd be riding the train to work, tracing the pre-made paths I'd trodden on thousands of times before, dreaming with empty eyes about places I'd never been.
I'll keep pushing until there's nothing left to push and diving into the things I want to do, and I'll celebrate all the mistakes along the way.
Except eating Ed's peanuts; that wasn't a mistake. Sorry Ed.
Until next time.
Dear FutureMe,
If you've actually figured out what to do with our life, congratulations. You've done much more than I have. If you've found that perfect girl, well done. If she's [NAME REDACTED], I applaud you. If your Youtube videos have gotten anywhere, I'm proud. Don't forget how much we love to write, and how we always dread the future. Don't forget about being a kid, don't get bogged down in work, and don't lose your sense of self in your life. Happy birthday.
And don't eat Ed's peanuts.
The funny thing about the email is that, in the back of my mind, the only part I remembered about it over 9 years was the name of [NAME REDACTED] even though that's the part that matters the least, now that I'm the person I am. A few years ago I faced a choice of whether or not to take another desk job, move to another state, work longer hours for more money; it was a very real, very pressing future after NYC malaise settled under my skin, just like the midnight sewage fumes that wafted from the sewer grates and clung to my clothes with every walk to the train station after work. Even though I didn't explicitly remember what I wrote in the email, I still had the sense to know the monotonous work-oriented life wasn't something I wanted. There's no point in dedicating life to work if there's little life left to live outside of it, at least for me.
And now that I've hit 30, I can look back on my 20s as being just as formative as my teenage years were. Just like it took getting a bit more mature to realise that I should actually give half a shit about my academia, it took getting ground up and thrown around by the private sector to make me realise that I hate generic office culture, I hate dress codes, I hate cover sheets for work reports, I hate office gossip, I hate riding the same goddamn train every day and seeing the same dead faces time and again that shamble off with zombie steps in their pre-determined routine, I hate faceless corporate overlords who are so far removed from the work at the bottom rung that they only serve to make those jobs more difficult by piling on more responsibilities and refusing to pay more or make the job more comfortable, I hate the pain in my back from carrying my bag up and down 20 NYC blocks because it saves me a few thousand on transport every year, I hate sycophantic people who try to win favour with others through food, I hate being forced to choose between trudging through a blizzard or using one of my vacation days that I'd been saving for a holiday, I hate being given the hand-me-down catering leftovers from whenever the bigwigs have a meeting, I hate having a variable work schedule and having to get up at 2am when the train reeks of piss and sweat, I hate having an idea on how to improve work processes only to have supervisors shrug it off because 'that's just how we do it'; at this point I'd rather wear LEGO pants than go back to that.
But my 20s wasn't just about discovering what I hate; if it was only that, well, I'd probably enter my 30s well equipped with a walker and a sign demanding kids turn down their damn music and stop playing in my street. I love clean air; I love to write, obviously; I love going to my local for the weekly pub quiz; I love sitting inside to the patter of rainfall; I love martial arts; I love trying to help others as best I can; I love my friends. And throughout that all, it's safe to say (if my continuing knowledge of Star Trek and Harry Potter minutiae is any indication) that I haven't lost passion about those things that comfort me.
Did I have another existential crisis? Well, it wouldn't be the end of my early years if I didn't have a minor one. It wasn't too pronounced, at least not as much as the end of my teens; maybe I've accepted that as I get older, my age is just the thing my body reminds me of in the occasional back and knee pain. So long as I can retain a bit of delight in my passions, the only thing that will age is my body. I'll get wiser, sure, try to learn from my mistakes, but that doesn't mean I'll stop making them. That was one of my ultimate fears with 'playing it safe' and taking another monotous job that saps time: I'd look at myself 20 years from now, see the thinned hair, the lines under my eyes, and wonder what's happened with my years. Pushing yourself to change and tackle new things is the breath of life; without it, I'd be riding the train to work, tracing the pre-made paths I'd trodden on thousands of times before, dreaming with empty eyes about places I'd never been.
I'll keep pushing until there's nothing left to push and diving into the things I want to do, and I'll celebrate all the mistakes along the way.
Except eating Ed's peanuts; that wasn't a mistake. Sorry Ed.
Until next time.
Thursday, January 16, 2020
Things to do before I turn 40
In 2013 I made a list of things I wanted to do before I turned 30. Without realizing it, I accomplished most of them (let's be generous and say I did 70% of them; I'll never learn to swim). So, with my 20s soon ending and my roaring 30s about to approach, I figured it would be a good time to make another list of things to do while my body slowly decays into the infinite nothingness and my youth becomes nothing but a sunny memory to revisit on nostalgic occasions.
- Publish a full-length novel. (Preferably not self-published, but hey, beggars can't be bongos.)
- Write original music, play it live, and eventually put it online somewhere.
- Get back into taekwondo competition shape and compete. (Injuries be damned!)
- Retire. (Might as well reach for the moon.)
- Deadlift 200kg.
- Be a TV extra again. (Exhausting, but fun.)
- Paint something!
- Finally learn the piano.
- Grow a garden.
- Pet as many dogs as I can.
Wednesday, August 29, 2018
Sacrifice Obsidian- Chapter 2
My gray walls rested within the realms of probability; that is, they existed, they were bounded in the temporal sturdiness of what one might call 'the present', I could feel them and I knew that they would feel the same every single time. The sole window told me it was day in my region of the simulacrum, with all the requisite notions of life existing somewhere between me and the sun to lend credence to that notion of the extemporaneity of life.
The only sound within was memorized mantra of stability: the only existing moment is now; the previous seconds are waves, the future seconds are storms; the present is the eye.
It was all I needed within my living space to rectify stability to my mind, which was still attempting to consolidate the knowledge of my previous two failures, all the steps I took, and how easily I failed the third time even when I was so close to preventing the deaths of millions. But the singularity of existence will allow me to continue on. It will allow me one more chance, Golem willing, to prevent catastrophe. And if I could not, then they will find another from an untattered timeline, and turn him into their savior, leaving me to exist as a braindead mongrel in a time that shouldn't be.
'A war that never was', they always tell me. A war that never was but was now. The erasure of trillions of future humans that eventually led to the extinction of the species at the end of the universe; the Golem calls it 'the unfathomable genocide'. Even now, as I recite the mantra to myself, the Golem tells me the history of the unfathomable genocide from its light in the wall, the history I can recite word-for-word with it. But the war, the truest incarnation of it, rests in the continued scars I receive, now three on my right shoulder. Three ticks for three failures, three cuts for three continually poor attempts to do my job to save the species.
I don't deserve a fourth.
Golem paused his recitation of the future history.
"Tailor 3712, your fourth excursion on case 40PD has been approved."
It was all I needed within my living space to rectify stability to my mind, which was still attempting to consolidate the knowledge of my previous two failures, all the steps I took, and how easily I failed the third time even when I was so close to preventing the deaths of millions. But the singularity of existence will allow me to continue on. It will allow me one more chance, Golem willing, to prevent catastrophe. And if I could not, then they will find another from an untattered timeline, and turn him into their savior, leaving me to exist as a braindead mongrel in a time that shouldn't be.
'A war that never was', they always tell me. A war that never was but was now. The erasure of trillions of future humans that eventually led to the extinction of the species at the end of the universe; the Golem calls it 'the unfathomable genocide'. Even now, as I recite the mantra to myself, the Golem tells me the history of the unfathomable genocide from its light in the wall, the history I can recite word-for-word with it. But the war, the truest incarnation of it, rests in the continued scars I receive, now three on my right shoulder. Three ticks for three failures, three cuts for three continually poor attempts to do my job to save the species.
I don't deserve a fourth.
Golem paused his recitation of the future history.
"Tailor 3712, your fourth excursion on case 40PD has been approved."
Sunday, March 18, 2018
A new story- "Sacrifice Obsidian"
Chapter 1
And I came upon the field where there would rest the dead in a day, and it was covered in roses and lilies, wildflowers and brambles, with birds chirping from the nearby meadows. Nary a foot had trodden through this field in the last month, and truly, this field had no significance other than being a random shrug of chance. It would be the last standing place for soldiers fighting in a war that never happened, not recorded in any history book you or I might have read or will read or might have heard about discussed in a cafe, and yet, it had happened, and it will happen, and then it will happen again. There was never any monument to this battle, and there shouldn't have been, and yet there would be, standing in the middle of a field of dirt, later remade into a town square with a quaint shopping mall. There would be no more roses or lilies, no more wildflowers, and the birds would perch atop streetlamps and primitive automobiles rather than the branches of trees.
This shouldn't have happened. This shouldn't happen. I failed.
My estimated probability of reconstruction had fallen below 1%, and I was pulled back forward, leaving another failed mission behind me. I would have to appeal to try again, but given my two previous failures, I wasn't likely to get a fourth.
The Bureau reception room buzzed into focus, and I was greeted by the familiar blank white wall and the smell of clean cotton.
"Tailor 3712, your third attempt to mend the timeline has failed," came the officious voice of the Golem. "Your probability of success fell below 1% and rendered avenues of options moot. The degradation of your genetic makeup has reached 5%. Do you appeal to attempt case number 40PD once more? It is estimated that the degradation of your genetic makeup will reach 8.3% depending on various factors of your interspersion with a standard deviation of 2%. As a reminder: at 10% degradation, we cannot withdraw you without significant damage to your nervous system."
Significant damage... maybe it's a price. They probably wouldn't ask me unless they knew something I didn't. How do I prevent a war that never happened?
"I appeal."
"You will be notified of the decision within 24 subjective solar hours. You may return to your residence. Any attempted unauthorized temporal incursions will result in banishment."
Sounds like they want me to stay.
And I came upon the field where there would rest the dead in a day, and it was covered in roses and lilies, wildflowers and brambles, with birds chirping from the nearby meadows. Nary a foot had trodden through this field in the last month, and truly, this field had no significance other than being a random shrug of chance. It would be the last standing place for soldiers fighting in a war that never happened, not recorded in any history book you or I might have read or will read or might have heard about discussed in a cafe, and yet, it had happened, and it will happen, and then it will happen again. There was never any monument to this battle, and there shouldn't have been, and yet there would be, standing in the middle of a field of dirt, later remade into a town square with a quaint shopping mall. There would be no more roses or lilies, no more wildflowers, and the birds would perch atop streetlamps and primitive automobiles rather than the branches of trees.
This shouldn't have happened. This shouldn't happen. I failed.
My estimated probability of reconstruction had fallen below 1%, and I was pulled back forward, leaving another failed mission behind me. I would have to appeal to try again, but given my two previous failures, I wasn't likely to get a fourth.
The Bureau reception room buzzed into focus, and I was greeted by the familiar blank white wall and the smell of clean cotton.
"Tailor 3712, your third attempt to mend the timeline has failed," came the officious voice of the Golem. "Your probability of success fell below 1% and rendered avenues of options moot. The degradation of your genetic makeup has reached 5%. Do you appeal to attempt case number 40PD once more? It is estimated that the degradation of your genetic makeup will reach 8.3% depending on various factors of your interspersion with a standard deviation of 2%. As a reminder: at 10% degradation, we cannot withdraw you without significant damage to your nervous system."
Significant damage... maybe it's a price. They probably wouldn't ask me unless they knew something I didn't. How do I prevent a war that never happened?
"I appeal."
"You will be notified of the decision within 24 subjective solar hours. You may return to your residence. Any attempted unauthorized temporal incursions will result in banishment."
Sounds like they want me to stay.
Sunday, March 11, 2018
My Personal, Absolute Favoritist, Top 50 Movies
Encouraged by an e-mail from an old colleague of mine, as well as watching Das Leben Der Anderen (The Lives of Others) the other day, I thought I'd finally compile a list of my favorite movies. The top 10 are in the order in which I prefer them, i.e. numero uno is my favorite of all time. Everything after 10 is just in my general favorites because there are too many to keep in order. The notion of 'best', to me, is just how the movie made me feel with a first viewing, and how enjoyable I found it upon repeated viewings.
1. Shaun of the Dead
2. Shawshank Redemption
3. Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan
4. The Legend of Drunken Master
5. The new Planet of the Apes trilogy
6. Wall-E
7. The Before Trilogy
8. In the Loop
9. Naked Gun: From the Files of Police Squad!
10. Monty Python and the Holy Grail
11. The Lives of Others
12. Hero (Jet Li)
13. Airplane!
14. Gattaca
15. Predestination
16. Timecrimes
17. Life of Brian
18. Casino Royale
19. La La Land
20. Enter the Dragon
21. In Bruges
22. Hot Fuzz
23. Star Treks III, IV, and VI
24. Superbad
25. Kung Fu Hustle
26. Dead Man's Shoes
27. 28 Days Later
28. Coming to America & Trading Places
29. Chinatown
30. Being There
31. A Shot in the Dark
32. Black Dynamite
33. Inglourious Basterds
34. The Matrix
35. Office Space
36. Kill Bill (1 & 2)
37. Logan
38. V for Vendetta
39. Lord of the Rings trilogy
40. Midnight in Paris
41. Annie Hall
42. Born to be Blue
43. Dragons Forever
44. The Full Monty
45. The Indiana Jones TRILOGY
46. Dr. Strangelove
47. Network
48. 3 Idiots & Dangal (for the sake of saving space)
49. Blade Runner & 2049
50. Children of Men
Now that I've made the list, I realized just how many films I had to exclude that I loved: The original Star Wars trilogy, Ex Machina, Galaxy Quest, Four Lions, The Dark Knight, Ghostbusters, Captain America: Winter Soldier, Lethal Weapon, Inception, 48 Hours, Kick Ass, John Wick, Groundhog Day, Minority Report, The Blues Brothers, the El Mariachi Trilogy, Oldboy and Sympathy for Lady Vengeance, Once, Ratatouille, Road to Perdition, Saving Private Ryan, Ferris Bueller, Forrest Gump, Snatch, Trainspotting, Spirited Away, The Dirties, basically all of Pixar (not Cars though), The Man from Earth, Ocean's 11, They Live, etc. There are also a bunch of smaller films I've seen over the years that I liked but have forgotten, sadly enough. 50 isn't enough space!
That's all for now,
Das Flüg
Saturday, March 10, 2018
See You, Space Cowboy
It's been a hot minute or two, I know; I can't believe it either. I'm sure I meant to write something new at some point, but maybe I just couldn't muster up the gall to write anything because I didn't know what to write. That's not to say I've been depressed or worried or frightened; not in the least. I've been busy, both working and living and loving life and generally taking moments to appreciate where I am and all the details of the day: the smell of sunset, the ripples of bark in a tree, the serenity of a long, open field with trees waving in the distance; it's been positively lovely.
There are things to talk about happening in the world and in the US, horribly sad and unbelievable and unconscionable things that some people thought wouldn't happen. It's hard to say, honestly, if it's possible to compress down everything into bite-sized, amenable portions that would enable the average person to have a firm grasp on some issue. For instance, 'Pharma Bro' Martin Shkreli was sentenced to prison for 7 years for defrauding investors. It's an encouraging story on the surface, but he wasn't convicted of price-gouging an essential medicine for AIDS patients, rather for maintaining a pyramid scheme and embellishing money from his companies. His supporters argue that he raised the price of the drug to 'encourage research into a newer drug' and that 'the costs would be paid out by insurance companies rather than the patient', but then they seem to ignore that insurance companies can raise premiums based on estimated costs of care.
And of course, there are other things, but it's not really my place in life to comment on everything that comes up. Crazy, I know: someone with a blog not venting their opinion on every little thing that comes up. It's as if maybe trying to make your opinion heard throughout the whole gorram 'verse isn't all that important unless you're someone who, A. actually understands an issue thoroughly, or has relevant firsthand experience to add nuanced detail to an issue, and 2. it really sets your trousers on fire. For me, the general world's plethora of shit arouses reactions and emotions and resignations of disgust or frustration, but for me to accord some notion that I can and should shape someone's opinions on something? Unless I'm well-versed, I'll just keep learning.
And anyway, there's too much to do in life to be constantly angry or frustrated or lament against the machine. I don't even know how to swim! And I've never traveled to Mongolia. Maybe I should do those things first before I choose to be angered by something small that doesn't truly affect me or my friends or the greater world at large.
I've also never eaten escargot, but that's probably because it's disgusting.
There are things to talk about happening in the world and in the US, horribly sad and unbelievable and unconscionable things that some people thought wouldn't happen. It's hard to say, honestly, if it's possible to compress down everything into bite-sized, amenable portions that would enable the average person to have a firm grasp on some issue. For instance, 'Pharma Bro' Martin Shkreli was sentenced to prison for 7 years for defrauding investors. It's an encouraging story on the surface, but he wasn't convicted of price-gouging an essential medicine for AIDS patients, rather for maintaining a pyramid scheme and embellishing money from his companies. His supporters argue that he raised the price of the drug to 'encourage research into a newer drug' and that 'the costs would be paid out by insurance companies rather than the patient', but then they seem to ignore that insurance companies can raise premiums based on estimated costs of care.
And of course, there are other things, but it's not really my place in life to comment on everything that comes up. Crazy, I know: someone with a blog not venting their opinion on every little thing that comes up. It's as if maybe trying to make your opinion heard throughout the whole gorram 'verse isn't all that important unless you're someone who, A. actually understands an issue thoroughly, or has relevant firsthand experience to add nuanced detail to an issue, and 2. it really sets your trousers on fire. For me, the general world's plethora of shit arouses reactions and emotions and resignations of disgust or frustration, but for me to accord some notion that I can and should shape someone's opinions on something? Unless I'm well-versed, I'll just keep learning.
And anyway, there's too much to do in life to be constantly angry or frustrated or lament against the machine. I don't even know how to swim! And I've never traveled to Mongolia. Maybe I should do those things first before I choose to be angered by something small that doesn't truly affect me or my friends or the greater world at large.
I've also never eaten escargot, but that's probably because it's disgusting.
That's all for now,
Das Flüg
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