What’s the point of caring about world events? Why does it matter if we know what is going on in Sudan right now if it doesn’t affect us? Now sure, you could do the whole “six degrees of separation” thing, or simply explain how as a united humanity, an atrocity towards one is an atrocity towards all philosophy, but that still ain’t changing the way I live my day to day life.
And even let’s say I am a compassionate person who does care deeply about the starving people in India, the poor sanitary conditions in southern China, or the homelessness in Durham. Since there is no way I as an individual can do anything to change it or do anything about it on a meaningful scale, how is simply KNOWING about it and being AWARE that its happening any different than the person who is clueless? How much real change has a UNC member of the ONE campaign done, compared to the self righteous trust fund baby who’s excited about the new season of The Hills?
Does it really matter if I know about the US involvement in Afghanistan? If I do or don’t, I’m still not going to be able to stop the Taliban. Beyond simple self-respect and “being an educated person,” who cares if I can name the 3 branches of our government? Or if I take the time to understand the health care debate, because let’s be honest, whether I understand it or not, decisions are being made.
Are the coffee shop revolutionaries, the UNC study abroad kids who go to Rwanda or the stay at home dads who watch CNN and MSNBC all day really any better than the “ignorance is bliss” bunch?
I think I'll stop there. My question mark key is feeling overworked.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Never mentions the word addiction in certain company
Coming home after this summer, I made a conscious effort to not to spend money on things I don’t need. And generally, I’ve been pretty good at patching jeans instead of buying new ones, abstaining from haircuts, biking instead of driving, and packing lunches for the day (ok, that’s not been much of a sacrifice, anyone who knows me knows my cooking obsession). But there’s one thing I can’t bring myself to stop buying.
Coffee.
And it’s not because I turn into this crazy, bitchy monster if I don’t have my morning dose of caffeine. It’s that habitual comfort and everything that comes from that warm coffee smell, tearing the brown packets of sugar, and even the little cardboard sleeves.
Nothings quite the same as getting to the Pit early in the morning (ok, not THAT early…) and sitting outside Daily Grind sipping on a cup of happiness swirled with a splash of half and half. You can’t beat that chilly morning air and people watching with a reading that’s either health policy or more likely the DTH crossword.
And then there’s Weaver Street. Love of my life. It’s hard to be in a bad mood when I’m drinking coffee in my free refill white ceramic mug surrounded by trees, art, kids, dogs, people with accents, bikers, bikers with kid’s seats—or side cars, old people, hippies, and every other kind of Carrboro person. I am convinced I get more work done in this kind of environment than the library, or maybe it’s simply because I die a little on the inside each time I step into Davis.
I don’t even want to do the math to see how much extra money I spend each week feeding my addiction (but that might be more because of my desire to run away from all things math related). Either way, I can rationalize it by at least drinking Rwandan coffee, no?
Coffee.
And it’s not because I turn into this crazy, bitchy monster if I don’t have my morning dose of caffeine. It’s that habitual comfort and everything that comes from that warm coffee smell, tearing the brown packets of sugar, and even the little cardboard sleeves.
Nothings quite the same as getting to the Pit early in the morning (ok, not THAT early…) and sitting outside Daily Grind sipping on a cup of happiness swirled with a splash of half and half. You can’t beat that chilly morning air and people watching with a reading that’s either health policy or more likely the DTH crossword.
And then there’s Weaver Street. Love of my life. It’s hard to be in a bad mood when I’m drinking coffee in my free refill white ceramic mug surrounded by trees, art, kids, dogs, people with accents, bikers, bikers with kid’s seats—or side cars, old people, hippies, and every other kind of Carrboro person. I am convinced I get more work done in this kind of environment than the library, or maybe it’s simply because I die a little on the inside each time I step into Davis.
I don’t even want to do the math to see how much extra money I spend each week feeding my addiction (but that might be more because of my desire to run away from all things math related). Either way, I can rationalize it by at least drinking Rwandan coffee, no?
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