Infuriated at personal shortcomings, Kiddo chugged 22 ounces of Fat Tire and took out enough food three Kiddos to the movies to while away the two hours it would take for her 12 copies of a 91 page board presentation to be comb bound, from the stack of paper so fat it was in an old printer box, and wrapped in a plaid, linen scarf to keep it from wetting in the flash flood warning.
It had taken an hour for them to print, back in the office behind some heavy fake cherry doors--all of which only opened with a badge swipe. Traffic, even at 6:30pm, stood to make me cry at the wheel.
That's when life becomes crucial again. There are no adorable children faces to look at you with hope. There are no teenagers on the line, ready to drop themselves into your enlightened hands. There are no adults thanking you and praising your black president, who shines with the fire of 40 saints.
There is no where to hitch hike without being an underpaid hooker, and no where you can drink beer all day and not feel anything but joy at all the dirt in your heels.
I've been back from Moldova for a year an a half. I haven't talked to any of my Moldovan friends. I love them, and think of them more often than they would believe if I told them.
But I was alone. I was alone and in the world, and doing something more terrifying. The people I'm dependent upon now, are dependent on me. We are living the capitalist dream, together. We are gleaning money from the hands of investors to defend the greatest country currently on earth. We are a smalll company burgeoning with ambition and desire to do good.
It's not how I wanted to do good, but I've drunk the kool aid of CEO: we are only here to pay mortgages and do good and interesting work.
Because, really, what else is there?
It had taken an hour for them to print, back in the office behind some heavy fake cherry doors--all of which only opened with a badge swipe. Traffic, even at 6:30pm, stood to make me cry at the wheel.
That's when life becomes crucial again. There are no adorable children faces to look at you with hope. There are no teenagers on the line, ready to drop themselves into your enlightened hands. There are no adults thanking you and praising your black president, who shines with the fire of 40 saints.There is no where to hitch hike without being an underpaid hooker, and no where you can drink beer all day and not feel anything but joy at all the dirt in your heels.
I've been back from Moldova for a year an a half. I haven't talked to any of my Moldovan friends. I love them, and think of them more often than they would believe if I told them.
But I was alone. I was alone and in the world, and doing something more terrifying. The people I'm dependent upon now, are dependent on me. We are living the capitalist dream, together. We are gleaning money from the hands of investors to defend the greatest country currently on earth. We are a smalll company burgeoning with ambition and desire to do good.
It's not how I wanted to do good, but I've drunk the kool aid of CEO: we are only here to pay mortgages and do good and interesting work.
Because, really, what else is there?
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