I'm writing this with no knowledge of the truth. This is complete fiction based on my assumptions. I do not watch TV, rarely read circulars for stores other than supermarkets, and ignore most emails stating: Save up to 75%! I am consumerism's nightmare. I'm a minimalist out of necessity, but it's taught me that this is now my way. I love movies, but don't own a DVD player. I own no streaming subscriptions, but do have access to two, due to the kindness of family and friends. I love video games, but have not owned a system since my PS2, which I used much more as a DVD player than a game console. I have worn the same three pairs of sneakers for three, wait, can it be four years?
I own five pairs of shorts, three pairs of sweats, two pairs of dress pants and some shirts. Two of which could be considered dress shirts. I no longer own a suit and own one tie from the dollar store. I have almost no furniture that is mine. A dresser and a bookshelf are all. I own one pair of sheets, which I clean fervently every few days. As my dear friend, Brett used to say "Cleanliness is godliness." The extent of my gadgets and gizmos is a coffee pot, with a gender, a spiralizer, and a tiny one-cup food processor. A gifted air-fryer is the most expensive thing I own next to my car. We could go into that, but let's not. I recently bought a plastic water bottle from Dollar Tree. One day, I assume I'll be in a position to buy my own plates and utensils, although, a single fork, spoon, and knife are all anyone really needs. I'm forgetting something, but it'll come to me when I stop typing this and grab my phone. It's all I have. All I need. All I really want. Maybe a good chair and a desk to write the great American novel. Maybe a tiny abode, with a bed, toilet, and shower. I'm surrounded now by someone who shuns consumerism while perusing the aisles of Costco, anxiously awaiting the opening of Home Goods and some other type of knick-knack warehouse. I look around the dwelling I call home. A million items all seen right near the checkout aisle, marked down for only the cost of your soul and belief system. A room filled with things as seen on TV. Even the organics are wholesomely packaged products of bigger corporations many have claimed to shun. An entire room made in China, minus fine China. My cat's bowl were made there. I didn't know. Frankly, I don't care. I help small businesses when I can, even researching their products. I do not drive myself crazy and try not to spend more than I can afford. I'll say it again: I am consumerism's worst nightmare, but I rarely speak of it. It's always given me reason to chuckle, that those who stomp their feet at the man, are wearing his rugged boots, his absorbent socks, his long-lasting jeans, his name-brand tee shirt, his logo-emblazoned work shirt, his American as apple pie hat (made in Thailand), and his comfortable yet practical gloves. Then, they hop into their car, much of it made in Mexico, and go to work, where most of the man's tools lay in wait. They come home to their appliance and gadget-filled home, smile, put their feet up on their Ikea furniture, turn on their Japanese television, and sigh. "Fuck the man."
I sit, Kermit by my side, and sip my Kentucky* bourbon! Yee-fucking haw!
*For the purpose of the story, my Swedish Vodka has been replaced by Kentucky Bourbon, because, you know, 'Murica!
I own five pairs of shorts, three pairs of sweats, two pairs of dress pants and some shirts. Two of which could be considered dress shirts. I no longer own a suit and own one tie from the dollar store. I have almost no furniture that is mine. A dresser and a bookshelf are all. I own one pair of sheets, which I clean fervently every few days. As my dear friend, Brett used to say "Cleanliness is godliness." The extent of my gadgets and gizmos is a coffee pot, with a gender, a spiralizer, and a tiny one-cup food processor. A gifted air-fryer is the most expensive thing I own next to my car. We could go into that, but let's not. I recently bought a plastic water bottle from Dollar Tree. One day, I assume I'll be in a position to buy my own plates and utensils, although, a single fork, spoon, and knife are all anyone really needs. I'm forgetting something, but it'll come to me when I stop typing this and grab my phone. It's all I have. All I need. All I really want. Maybe a good chair and a desk to write the great American novel. Maybe a tiny abode, with a bed, toilet, and shower. I'm surrounded now by someone who shuns consumerism while perusing the aisles of Costco, anxiously awaiting the opening of Home Goods and some other type of knick-knack warehouse. I look around the dwelling I call home. A million items all seen right near the checkout aisle, marked down for only the cost of your soul and belief system. A room filled with things as seen on TV. Even the organics are wholesomely packaged products of bigger corporations many have claimed to shun. An entire room made in China, minus fine China. My cat's bowl were made there. I didn't know. Frankly, I don't care. I help small businesses when I can, even researching their products. I do not drive myself crazy and try not to spend more than I can afford. I'll say it again: I am consumerism's worst nightmare, but I rarely speak of it. It's always given me reason to chuckle, that those who stomp their feet at the man, are wearing his rugged boots, his absorbent socks, his long-lasting jeans, his name-brand tee shirt, his logo-emblazoned work shirt, his American as apple pie hat (made in Thailand), and his comfortable yet practical gloves. Then, they hop into their car, much of it made in Mexico, and go to work, where most of the man's tools lay in wait. They come home to their appliance and gadget-filled home, smile, put their feet up on their Ikea furniture, turn on their Japanese television, and sigh. "Fuck the man."
I sit, Kermit by my side, and sip my Kentucky* bourbon! Yee-fucking haw!
*For the purpose of the story, my Swedish Vodka has been replaced by Kentucky Bourbon, because, you know, 'Murica!
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