There are ten of us sitting around a table, giving our informed opinion about a cinnamon roll. You pay ten people $75 each to give their opinion of a cinnamon roll, and suddenly they have all kinds of detailed preferences that no real person would ever have: buttery flavor, doughy consistencies, a slight grittiness to the icing...it's sad really, sad most of all because I am participating. I could use the $75. Saying "well that's an easy $75" only makes it worse, actually. After eight hours of what might be called "real" work by comparison, I'd rather be almost anywhere than here, but for the scarcity mindset which looms large over my mind and my country, and which my God tells me I should not suffer.
They take away the cinnamon rolls, and place a single chip on a plate in front of us. "What do you like about this chip?" "It looks good to eat," we say. "But _why_? What are some _words_ that _describe_ what it's doing for you??" implores our discussion leader. "Well, it looks crispy and crunchy and like it probably has a bit of light flavour." Some teacher's pet in the corner suddenly waxes eloquent about the way the light reflects off the chip. "So..._when do you see yourself eating these?_" asks the leader, gesturing with her torso as though trying to draw some kind of revelation out of our experience of this single chip on a styrofoam plate. But we are dry wells.
After it was over I drove to Michael's to meet Jess. She texted to tell me she and Peter were going there to pick up canvases for their next paintings quick, so without telling her, I decided to meet her there. Here I had just come from eight hours of keeping watch over dollar losses, and another two of
They take away the cinnamon rolls, and place a single chip on a plate in front of us. "What do you like about this chip?" "It looks good to eat," we say. "But _why_? What are some _words_ that _describe_ what it's doing for you??" implores our discussion leader. "Well, it looks crispy and crunchy and like it probably has a bit of light flavour." Some teacher's pet in the corner suddenly waxes eloquent about the way the light reflects off the chip. "So..._when do you see yourself eating these?_" asks the leader, gesturing with her torso as though trying to draw some kind of revelation out of our experience of this single chip on a styrofoam plate. But we are dry wells.
After it was over I drove to Michael's to meet Jess. She texted to tell me she and Peter were going there to pick up canvases for their next paintings quick, so without telling her, I decided to meet her there. Here I had just come from eight hours of keeping watch over dollar losses, and another two of
