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2001-08-14 / 1:32 p.m. ~The Asian boy with red hair~ There's an Asian boy with red hair riding his bicycle up the hill past the chicken abattoir. I see him in the morning on my way to work. I wonder where does he go, where does he work, what is his name. One day I would like to talk to him, to hear his voice, and look at his bicycle riding legs up close. In the morning my mind is active. I'm thinking about Moby and his essay on veganism, and why I eat meat. I'm thinking about animals being sentient beings and feeling pain, and then I'm thinking about tomatoes crying and wondering if lettuce feels pain when it's harvested. Then the song by Nirvana pops in my head and I can hear Curt Kobain singing, "It's okay to eat fish 'cause they don't have any feelings", and then I'm thinking about the Native peoples of this continent and the way they revered everything the earth provided them. They took only what they needed, animals, plants, they had celebrations thanking the earth. It was good. What is not good is factory farming, and if someone like Moby truly cared about the state of this country's meat production maybe he would band people together to find a more viable alternative instead of waxing philosophical about the subject in CD liner notes. Or maybe he already is lobbying and I just don't know it. Then, once in the shower, my mind moved on and I was angry all over again at being told my "premise is flawed", as if I presented a thesis via email. And that someone had the nerve to read my diary and criticize my most personal and deepest feelings presented here. How wrong that was. How very, very wrong, and how angry it makes me, still. How I can feel the adrenaline surge just to think of the horribly ignorant and misguided words he wrote to me, words whose sole purpose it was to wound me. Angry, angry. The new person brought her own radio. I can hear it across the aisle so I am forced to wear my headphones and listen to my Walkman, my old, old, circa 1984 or so Walkman. Dinosaur electronics. I wish I were with the Asian boy with red hair right now. I bet he works at a record store. Or the used book store up the road. I bet he is listening to Cibo Matto or Fatboy Slim right now. Which reminds me that Fatboy Slim plays here on the 31st� Really, who would read someone's diary and criticize her for feeling the feelings she feels, the emotions she expresses? Who would read of someone expressing loneliness or uncertainty and throw it back at her, criticize her as a person? Who would do such a thing? Imagine reading someone's diary, someone who expresses thoughts of loss, of depression, or despair, and writing to this person and telling him/her that he/she has issues, has no grasp on reality, is lonely and paranoid, lives his/her life online, etc. What is the point of that? I shouldn't even think of it, but the fact that this was someone with whom I'd already been in contact, of whom I'd been so supportive, well, it freaks me out, really, it was so unbelievably horrible, on such a deep level, to be attacked for my very character, my feelings, my soul. Moby is on now. I taped "Play" on my Jeff Buckley tape. If it's okay for lions to eat wildebeests why isn't it okay for humans to eat cows? There exists the prey and there exists the predator. No, a cheeseburger a day is not healthy, and factory farming is cruel and horrific, but is eating meat wrong? That's like asking if an embryo is a life. I'm not sure there is a good answer. Animals taste good. Does that make it right? No. Why are they here? Why are we here? Do I love animals? Do I care about their welfare? Of course. Okay, I'm conflicted about this issue, always have been, but my final word, now, is this: If I had to slaughter my own animals for food, I wouldn't eat meat. A and I are talking about the advantages, and to me, mostly disadvantages of being flight attendants. For every negative I mention she disagrees with me, and it starts to feel like we're arguing and like I can't talk to anyone right now, so I stop. Thankfully, my phone rings. And she shows me a book of wedding dresses, a catalog, and I don't even care, don't even respect the outdated tradition of getting married, of wearing the virginal white, exposing all that skin, wearing that train, that veil, and crown. It seems so foreign, like something I'd never even consider, so it's hard to be enthusiastic. If you, yes you, read this, whoever you are, and you don't agree with something I've said, or you think I am one seriously fucked up individual, know what? Keep it to yourself. This is my diary, yeah, I'm writing about my "diary" again, not my "journal", my diaryland "diary", and it's MINE. Read it if you like, sure, great, if you have something nice to say, by all means, send email, sign the guestbook, if you wanna ream me a new asshole, shred me as deeply as you know how, fuck yourself instead. Okay? Great. All's well. I've got work to do now. Cost of the War in Iraq
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