Contemplative Mug Sucks

I find myself disturbed by not knowing how many distinct chickens comprise this bulk package I got a great deal on Costco. There’s something about the way that individual subjectivities are collapsed into interchangeable commodoties based on some shared objective property that makes me kind of uneasy these days. I think of the way we objectify not only animals but also each other. All too often, we treat other people like the infant treats their mother’s breast: something with no interiority of its own from which value is extracted.

The Hardy Boys books were originally written in the 1930s by a handful of writers. In the 1970s they were heavily revised. They were made 20% shorter and more action-oriented, and the plots were significantly altered. I grew up reading the 1970s versions, but as an adult have started reading the 1930s versions. There is an uneasy nostalgia in this – I am reliving a past that was not mine substantially, although I can still see my own childhood in it. I realize my own childhood was a distortion, a palimpsest.

We take the sun into our bodies, transitively, and this lowers our cholesterol and decreases our risk of mortality. At the same time, plants high in FODMAPs refuse digestion and assimilation, and our stomachs rumble: a microcosm of a supernova in our digestive tracts.