Faux-cially Conscious

A message from my Inner Child:
Only four more days until Christmas! Yay! Woo! Presents! Cookies! Wooo!

A message from my Inner Pagan:
Happy Yule. Go burn something.

A message from me, Personally:
Here, have some soap. I’ll keep the box.

I didn’t want to write this post. It’s not funny, and there’s no real point, but I feel at this point it is what it is, and it needs to go to print. I intended to write about how I’ve spent the last four days eating like a condemned inmate, hoovering anything in my scope with little regard for content or quantity, and all about how fat I am, how fat I feel, about all these people I work with who love to bake and cook and candy and frost and share—but I can’t. I’m surrounded by people who who have food, celebrate with food, and who have enough food that they want everyone to be a part of the experience. And I’m lucky. A lot of people don’t have that; I have to say ‘a lot’ because there’s no actual number to get behind, much less get my head around, and all my jokes about dieting and being broke are only funny until I start to take them seriously, and realize how incredibly spoiled I am. That said, please follow one of my Links of Middle-Class Guilt and donate some goodies today. Or give the bell-ringers some cash, or bring canned goods to work, or whatever you can:

Second Harvest
Habitat for Humanity
Toys for Tots
Salvation Army

I think the Dickens is trying to garner a social conscience, but since I’m generally so apathetic, it’s really just making me depressed. And Victorian urchins are more trite than endearing, and I care less of they die of the typhoid than about African genocide (also, the urchins are fictional, and would be long dead even if they weren’t). I’d better add links to that effect:

Help Darfur Now
Amnesty International

You know what goes great with a meal? Some basic human rights. Tasty.

I really respect the people behind these organizations, mainly because they… care. They care about people in different countries, with different skin colors and languages; they care what happens to them, about their quality of life. I don’t… care. I don’t not care, if that makes any sense; I think I’ve just become cynical to the point where nothing really shocks me, and my shell is so thick and calloused because I really could care, but if start caring I won’t stop and my heart would explode. I protect myself from giving a shit to avoid those dawning realizations that end in tears of impotent fury… but I still donate to these causes. Not because I’m a bleeding-heart liberal, but because I know there are things going on that are wrong, really wrong, nightmare- and vomit-spells-inducing wrong, things that once you’ve seen it’s hard to live a normal life again. These people deal with that, and I can’t. I can’t listen to the wrong unless it’s in the abstract or a history text, because I can fool myself into thinking that the wrong is gone. So I’ll give money now, button up my Denial jeans, and hope I did something that will help someone. And maybe when the numbers get smaller, I can start to care.

Sorry for the downer of a post. I promise we’ll do eggnog tomorrow.


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