I am not an ethical person. I realized this today in class when my professor forced me to engage in an argument about Lingus and torture. We were reading a story, "The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas", by Ursula Le Guin, where a supposedly perfect society, free from crime, addiction and poverty, lock this poor little 10 year old bastard child in a basement, and thrive off of his pain. If the child is set free, the perfect society would crumble. Some of these inhabitants choose to stay, knowing about this kid who employs but one man to kick him in the face every once in a while, and not feed him so that society can survive. This, of course, is a hypothetical situation that is derived from the big dirty American mentality, that also loves to piss on little starving children.

So, the professor asked what we would do, as there is the option to leave the city, stay silent and enjoy the free drugs, sex and bareback horseriding festivals, or free the child and face the consequences of such a paradox. Naturally I chose to stay, although i must admit that i would probably put my clothes on the horse for my own personal amusement.

I don't know where people get the idea that it's wrong to only worry about yourself. I try to stray away from guilt, i don't like to look around and point out everything that's wrong, and why i think that it's wrong, and why it should be changed. As far as i'm concerned, life *is* one big fucking paradox, if i feed one kid off the 700 Club commercials, who's to say he's not wearing that sandwich around his neck, charging a peach pit and 3 slabs of bark for everyone to touch his D grade salami on wheat, pissing off all the other little starving children. What if i start a little starving children war somewhere in enter unprounounceable city here, where the kids have to use the soup as weaponry towards the other kids who are trying to attack them for it, a whole soup war is in full force as i sit lazily, stoned and teary eyed on my big ass couch with my big ass bowl of cheerios reading the numbers off my personalized bank card, asking the operator "Now do i get a postcard, or...?". Meanwhile the salami pimp is hovering his scalding 2 year old dinty moore over the head of the only kid in the village who has the energy to lift the weight of a surplus chunky pencil, all so i can feel reassured that i have done something this year.

I like doing drugs, I like spending my money on drugs, and video games and frappucino's, and i'm pretty lucky that i don't live in a tree.

Are you?