Social "leechery"

Break has created a little bit of space to breathe (despite the 1000 plus pages of homework to read before I return to SC!). Seeing friends and family, being surrounded by familiar haunts and faces I know have all contributed to the restorative experience that comes with a Christmas in Turkey.

I've been keeping an eye on both my present and past experiences as I process last semester and my other rough transitionary periods, and I'm trying to come up with a definition of independence and aloneness that works within the constructs of who I am and what I have to work with. Let me decode that poor little word puzzle for you. :)

Essentially, I'm realizing that I'm not as independent a person as I thought. I'm not someone who needs to have people around me all the time, and I think I confused the trait of being able to enjoy doing some things alone with the schizoid preference of doing everything alone. My new conclusions, upon studying two instances of difficult (and utterly alone) transitions, clues me into the fact that I do not, in fact, do well in transitions when I transition alone. I can make friends anywhere if I have a social base from which I operate and to which I can return at any point.

The implications for treatment? (My gosh, I'm becoming utterly noxious in my counseling treatment lingo). When I make transitions in the future, it would be best if I transitioned into an already existing social network or transitioned with a social network (ie: moved with a friend). This is all fine and good in theory, but I'm not sure how to apply it without becoming a social leech. I don't like leeches.

Suggestions?

Four Themes

I keep trying to write a blog, but it just isn't happening. I usually go into "emotional processing" zone somewhere along the way, which leads to me pitching a hissy fit and rolling around on the floor in tears, while hysterical laughter issues from my mouth, because what am I, three?

So I'm just going to try to re-cap this semester in as quick and straight-forward a method as possible:

Patience has been a bit theme. My timing is off of God's by about 6000 billion years, and it shows. One of us is wrong. I vacillate with regard to which one I believe that to be.

Surrender has been another big theme. I'm nowhere near there yet. In fact, the thought of surrender makes my head ache and puts my teeth on edge. We'll see how this goes.

Along with the surrender comes crushed dreams. Not necessarily crushed, per se. But surrender means that they can't undergird my existence. And let me tell you, giving up dreams can an emotionally taxing experience.

Finally, woundedness. I have literally become a person who can turn on the tears within seconds and with very little provocation. I just have a lot of seeping wounds right now, it's taking longer (ahem. . .patience) than I had hoped to de-seep them. It's funny to be doing so well, yet be so emotionally filleted at the same time. We'll see where that goes.

There's a re-cap. It's been a very bad semester, if one judges the goodness of a semester by the amount of pixie dust and giggles found per square minute. It's been a very good semester, if one judges goodness by the number of times God has smacked one upside the head.

I can't really say definitively that it has been bad or good, hard or easy. . .it's just been. It's one more semester that I can place in that little record book of my life, and while it included some failures and some successes and some surrender and so much rebellion I'm nowhere near the root of the problem and have already considered giving up. . .it has been.

And that in itself is a good thing.

Kicking and Screaming

I fully intend to phone in the rest of the semester. That's probably not what Jesus would do, but I'm done trying to use that line as guilt motivation, and have very little inclination to care about school or goals, or anything or importance, at this point. Instead I watch House and drink coffee. Not a bad life, all things considered.

Truth is, I am feeling intense cabin fever right now; I'm really fighting the thought of being here for another semester, let alone another several years. Part of it is the fact that this program is so harrowing that crap I never realized bothered me is suddenly making me run to my car to cry after class (where some now-traumatized 16-year-old boys caught me yesterday. That was amusing, to say the least). Then, of course, I wonder what's wrong with me and when it's going to get better, because I can't afford to go through life leaking all my bodily fluids. I'm already dehydrated from all the coffee.

I'm looking into volunteer opportunities and advocacy groups here in Columbia. That's the best way I can think of to help me reconcile with being here until I'm 26 (or longer). The justice oriented part of me, the passionate part, the part that I like best because it isn't focused on my petty life, has been dormant since getting here. I need to nudge it back awake. I need to make changes in the way I live. Graduate school Lauren, so far, is a bit of a disappointment; so I guess it's a good thing I'm going to be here for so long to rectify that, isn't it? :)

Clarity

I don't have a whole lot of that right now, but I was writing an email to a very dear person in my life about how I feel emotionally and existentially on the brink (if one can, indeed, be existentially on the brink), and concluded, "Maybe this is what happens when someone who is the center of her universe meets the Center of the Universe."

Whoop, there it is! That's it. Of course things hurt like hell right now--C.S. Lewis writes, in the beginning of Screwtape Letters, "We must picture Hell as a state where everyone is perpetually concerned about his own dignity and self-advancement. . ."--by that definition, I'm in hell. And getting out of hell is an awful process.

I'm finally starting to get what it means to be painfully purified. It means, in my case at least, being flung from my own personal pedestal. And I wanna go back. Being the shiznit of my own world is not only comfortable, it keeps me feeling really good about myself. God. . .yeah, God doesn't make me feel good about myself, at least not initially. God makes part of me cringe in horror, while the other part says, "Hey, You should probably pay attention to me, too! I'm kind of a big deal!" Part of me grovels while another part, a very real part, stands up and makes the absurd demands an ant makes to lion. "Save me, protect me, and then lavish upon me everything I ever wanted! In short, be my personal genie! Be the center of MY universe, just as I am! Then I'll love You. I've even give You lip service and try really hard to make You happy."

Too bad the lion doesn't need me to be happy. Too bad I can't see that the only reason the lion takes any notice of me at all is because of His character, not my virtue.

Of course it's gonna hurt. My definition of happiness centers around me. Until I can change that definition, I will never achieve true happiness. And changing that definition means being stripped of all the coping skills I've ever developed, along with a good dose of whatever keeps me feeling good about myself. . .and it requires a whole lot of trust that, when it's all said and done and I've got nothing left, He'll be willing to heal and restore the wreckage.

Hearts and cling film

My heart works like cling film--you know, the craptastic stuff that becomes utterly useless once you pull it off the roll, because it sticks all over everything you had no intention of it touching, and balls up on itself once you get it to the dish you want to cover?

Yup, that's my stupid little heart. It clings to the things God has given a clear "no" to, and overlooks the things He wants me to focus on. It gets so wrapped up in my pain it forgets the blessings it's been given. It becomes absolutely fixated on areas that are harmful or at least not helpful, thus negating its purpose.

It's been a rough few weeks, as I've lost track of where God fits into this never-ending picture of grad school ahead of me, and have begun focusing on the here and now. The here and now isn't bad. It's just lonely and wounded sometimes.

I'm learning that healing and woundedness are not as black and white as I once believed. I used to think that wounding encompassed life so heavily that when a person became wounded, s/he had no choice but to break from life, heal, and then move on. Wounding does permeate life, but it's much more subtle. I, for example, am a highly functioning individual, and truth be told, I'm genuinely happy most of the time. But wounds I've carried for a long time are beginning to become de-scabbed, and I'm in that contradictory stage of being completely fine, yet totally wounded at the same time. Highs and lows meshed together to make. . .not a comfortable medium, but a painful joy. Joy is definitely the melody, but ache surely does play a persistent harmony.

I'm not sure if any of these far flung analogies make sense, even in my head. I suppose at the end of the day, I'm just trying to get across the concept that I am frequently stupid and run away from the ache that God filters down to me, in favor of the more brutal ache this world offers when I'm on my own. It seems easier, initially, because then I don't have to deal with the hurt of what feels like betrayal, and the "Why, God? Why weren't You there's?" that inevitably arise when I feel striken.

A career of being

Have you ever wanted your career to be. . .well, being? Gaining knowledge, challenging yourself, growing and stretching and creating, and structuring yourself into "all that you can be?" (Sorry, Marine Corps).

I know that purists out there would hop down my throat at this point, trying to delineate between "vocation" and "career," but I am talking an actual career here-- a "wake up in the morning, immerse myself in Scripture, drink coffee and study logic and read philosophy and meet with a friend to encourage her and write poetry and volunteer at a homeless shelter, then tuck yourself into bed for a full eight hours. . .rinse, lather, and repeat" kind of career. An all-expenses paid personal growth plan.

Today we had a chapel speaker talk about leadership. Leadership is great, and all, but I found myself wondering, "is there room for followers in the kingdom of heaven?" I am not, and have never been, a person of great influence. For the first 21 years of my life, I would all but roll over and play dead when asked to have an opinion or make a decision on something. Now, I am happy to do my own thing, but I have no interest in inciting others to come along with me. (We can address self-protective strategies later). All this to say in most instances I am a token follower, and I am proud of it.

I don't think I was made for the front lines. When I think of my role of the Body, I think of. . .I don't know, exactly. The image of a rock comes to mind. I'm not sure what the corresponding body part is.I think of being someone who helps speak truth to and bind the wounds of those who have been beaten and bruised and bloodied on the front lines. A support structure for those leaders whose plans have fallen apart, and a reality check/admonishment to those leaders whose successes (and heads) have grown exponentially. I am not the hand, or the feet, or the head, that rushes into action, or the voice that calls for others to join. Maybe I'm the butt, or something--when you're there, you're resting and relaxed.

I want to have a career of being so that I can have a foundation from which to encourage others, to know well the truth on which I stand, and to model a balanced, well-lived, joyful life to others. (Also because it would be the bombdiggity).

Remembrance

A test is coming up in my Genesis through Song of Solomon survey course, which means I have been devouring the Samuels, Kings, and Chronicles with as much speed as a comprehending reading allows.

I have been, as usual, astounded by the apparent stupidity of the Israelites, as evidenced by the cycle they seem to go through of getting into trouble, crying out to God, being rescued by God, then forgetting about or grumbling against God and choosing instead to worship Molech, Chemosh, Asherah, and Baal. . .followed, of course, by trouble.

Unfortunately, I also see more than enough of myself in these frail, oh-so-human beings.

A few short months ago, I was praising God for bringing me here and providing abundantly and often. Within a few days of telling my parents I wanted a car, we found the perfect one. I was given an unexpected scholarship. I found a house and roommates with minimal effort on my part. I was given a job for the summer, and after a summer of stressing about it, I found a job here within two weeks of moving. I had no problems driving down here, and I have found classes to be incredible and those by whom I am surrounded to be true followers of Christ and people on whom I can rely. I have a church and friends and even a mechanic who sends his clients presents for their birthdays. And that is just material provision; along every step of the way, God has also provided for me by His presence. I am completely and utterly spoiled.

Yet I forget that. Like the ancient Israelites, I sometimes find that my diet of manna is bland, or that the Philistines of my life (big decisions, relational conflicts, big tests, general stress) loom much bigger than God. I tend to subscribe to a sort of Aesop's Fables view of God: "He helps those who help themselves." The God I sometimes think I serve is manipulable and petty, and will only grant me what I need if I take the right sequence of steps or pray the right prayer, or always make the right decisions. And sure, while I know that I will face consequences for poor decisions/sin, if the "right" (or righteous) decision is not explicitly spelled out in Scripture, I can go ahead, make my decision, and trust that God will pick up the necessary pieces and give the necessary provision.

I need to work on remembering His grace and provision in my life up until this point. That would save me a lot of time skulking around in fear of taking a wrong step and facing unendurable consequences.

An Inner Dialogue

At work:

Outer me: "Sir, would you like a gift receipt with your purchase today?"

Older man: "Do you have a boyfriend?"

Outer me: "Uh. . .*shrill, awkward laugh*

Inner me: "Lie, lie lie. . ."

Outer me: "No."

Inner me: "Really, Lauren? You pick this moment to sprout a conscience? What about that time when you told your mom that you hadn't eaten that bag of chocolate? What about the time you told that guy who asked for your cell number that you didn't have a phone--and it began ringing in your purse 30 seconds later? Really? Now?"

Man: "I want to set you up with my son. You'd be great for him."

Outer me: "Oh. . .um. . .hm."

Inner me: "Wow. Didn't realize you were asking if he wanted a daughter-in-law with his purchase, were you?"

Man: "He's 25, and I sometimes think he's too laid back for his own good."

Inner me: "Tell him you're 17. Tell him you just got out of jail. Tell him you're married. Tell him you're a stripper."

Outer me: "Oh, so you're trying to get him to settle down."

Inner me: "What is wrong with this guy that you are so desperate to get him settled that you're selling him to a girl whose career goals, for all you know, are to be a cashier at Bed Bath and Beyond until the end of time?"

Man: "Yeah. I'll have him come in here and buy something."

Outer me: (in a dazed manner) "Well. . .um. . .I'll be here."

Inner me: "Dear Lord, please please let me now be here. Also, Lauren, on a scale of really poor responses, that registers a 10."

Absurd experiences amuse me.

Bliss is found in

. . .a gloomy morning cuddled up in a blanket, reading my Bible, drinking green tea and eating peanut butter oatmeal.

. . .laying in bed, watching the light creep with increasingly intensity into your room and knowing that you have a few more minutes to lie there.

. . .a cup of potato soup and a whole wheat baguette from Panera, eaten on the way to meet with a group of fellow students.

. . .that meeting with fellow grad students.

. . .a hot shower after an intense run.

. . .finding a sewing table.

. . .giving up on dressing up for class. Jeans and a sweatshirt=good feeling.

. . .driving to and from school with the roommate.

. . .having a prayer day at school.

. . .truth.

. . .eating a piece of maple pumpkin cheesecake (yes, it's as good as it sounds) with the roommate.

. . .sitting in a rocking chair on a screened in porch, discussing theology with other grad students and sniffing the rain-fresh air.

. . .finding pumpkin spice creamer.

. . .a new season of Psych.

. . .clean yellow sheets.

. . .hope.

It's been a good 24 hours. Also, please note how much of a shameless foodie I am.

Do you want to get well?

I was reading over some of my semester goals today, and a rather surprising theme emerged. I am an excuse maker. A big one.

"I want to do this, but. . ."

"I think this would be a good goal, but. . ."

Reminds me of John 5: After Jesus asks what seems to be a ridiculously obvious question to a lame man ("do you want to get well?"), the man responds with an even more surprising, "There's no one to help me." In other words, "I can't." Perhaps in the case of this man, he was demonstrating faith (ie: "I can't, Lord, but you can").

My case, however, contains no such faith demonstrations. I stop right after "I can't."

"God, I would like to stop being so controlled by people. But I can't."

"God, I would like to stop my patterns of emotional eating. But I can't."

"God, it would be nice if I trusted you more/loved people more/was more generous/didn't live under the weight of self-imposed guilt/you name it, I've been there? It really would. I would like it a lot. But I can't."

And underneath all these excuses is the more enlightening fact that "I don't want to." It's too hard, and I prefer to eat ice cream when I'm sad than to turn it down and just be sad. It's too hard to love people I don't like, and I would prefer to dislike them and find some excuse for my behavior. It's too hard to stop being controlled by people, and I would rather work my butt off this semester, risking my schoolwork and health and relationships, than tell my boss that I can't and risk making him angry with me.

My sin patterns have carved a rut in my being, and despite the fact that the grass is legitimately greener on the other side, digging myself out of the rut is too hard. I prefer to lie here in my sin, looking wistfully but helplessly at freedom, and saying, through actions if not words, "Yeah, Lord, the freedom You died to give me is nice, and all. . .but I like this better."

How would our lives be different if we really and truly wanted to be well?

The part of the show where Larry comes out to sing a silly song

. . .is not the part of the show I'm currently watching.

I'm at the part of the show that seems to be dragging on interminably, the entire symphony balanced on a single dissonant phrase that grates on the nerves like elevator music.

The part where my thoughts and feelings grope desperately at the nebulous concept of "home" even as my rational self points out that no place on this earth will satiate my cravings.

I'm at the point where I feel I've had very much fun playing grown-up, thank you very much, and now can I please sit in my mommy's lap and have her kiss my owies and tell me it will all be ok? Please?

Laps seem to be in somewhat short supply when you're a grown-up (or a pseudo grown-up. . .I'm sort of an adolescent grown up, caught as I am in the awkward stage between true college and true career).

I'm learning one can't always writhe out of uncomfortable circumstances. I'm here, and here I stay. So at this point it comes down to choice. I can choose to live life as a pinned butterfly, fighting my environment with everything in me. . .or I can thrive rooted in the dream that brought me here in the first place. My "today" may not be perfect or even enjoyable for a time, but I can choose to live in it with joy because I have a dream. On a temporal level, I have the dream of one day returning to a place I love and serving a people I love with the skills I develop here. On a permanent level, I have the hope that He who has begun some kind of work in me will be faithful to complete it, and that any present "sufferings" I experience now are not worth comparing to the glory that will be revealed in us.

That's a part of the show I can appreciate.

Rejoice in the Lord always, and again I say rejoice! (Cue 2nd round here).

I'm trying to practice rejoicing in the Lord. Gratitude and joy go hand in hand, I think, and I need to practice both, but for whatever reason, joy feels more proactive to me. Perhaps it's just a more vibrant concept in my mind. I kind of see gratitude as one of the patriarchs of the virtues, while joy is the young buck of the family, powered by hope, and buoyed by gratitude. Forgive that hopeless little metaphor--it's the best way I can currently express how I view joy.

Certain parts of my life have been struggles for me of late, and rejoicing in the Lord (in the hope of working toward goals I am eager to achieve, in the gratitude that comes of studying all the ways He has met my needs, and most of all, in the delight of knowing that someday I will know Him fully, even as I am fully known) has caused enabled me to tweak my perspective. It still takes some work and a little self-therapy (CBT, anyone?), but it works. And it's wonderful.

The fact that I was able to run today for the first time in months also helped. Endorphins are wonderful, no?

Saccharine Sweet

"Oh my gosh, he's such a creep! He keeps calling me up, and asking me to do stuff. . .and then I go, but try to keep it short. . .and then he keeps calling. . .I don't know what to do!"

Perhaps this is a wee bit harsh, but I wish girls would sometimes step up to the plate a little more with regard to their relationships. You don't want to spend time with him. He keeps calling. So what do you do?

A) Go out with him
B) Tell him you're busy
C) Say no.
D) Say yes, and then whine to all your friends about how this guy is following you, and you can't get him to stop, and blah blah blah.

Apparently "D" is the new pink, as oblivious guys and wussy girls tap dance around the issue at hand. When I've suggested to girls that they actually just turn the guy down (no excuses, no "maybe some other times," just a polite, "No, I don't think that's going to work,"), I'm labeled harsh, heartless. All because I would rather send a guy away slightly hurt but with his dignity intact than play him along, tear him to shreds behind his back, and ultimately dump him, hurting him worse than the first refusal would have.

Ladies, please quit committing the logical misstep of gossiping behind a guy's back and stringing him along--all in the name of "not hurting him." It's unrequited romantic feelings. Someone is going to be hurt, and that same someone will ultimately heal. The more quickly the hurt is dealt out, the more quickly the healing can commence, so keep his dignity (and your own) intact by treating him and his reputation with care.

For future reference

Disclaimer: I'm trying to keep a log of this experience, to remember it in detail, so that throughout other transitory times, I can review and realize that I'm normal. Perhaps this is an obsessive attempt at control that indicates that all is not as well as I think it is. We'll see. Forgive the intrinsically selfish nature of these next few posts. Hopefully I'll be able to post something more universally meaningful at some point soon.

So here, apparently, is where it hits. I almost cried today in a training video for work. The training video, shockingly enough, did not warrant any kind of emotion on my part. But there it was.

I suppose now is where my emotional reserves have been used up. Yet I'm not sure. It's not as though this has been terribly uncomfortable for me. I like my roommates, I like my landpeople, I like my classes, and my professors, and my classmates seem nice. My new job seems as though it will be enjoyable. In fact, on paper, this transition could not be going more smoothly.

So why am I spending a lot more time than I ought on Facebook, connecting, however briefly, to my past? Why are unhealthy coping mechanisms surfacing in my life? Tonight, as I talked to a dear friend, I kept saying, "Yeah, it's fine, and I'm fine," with a broken record quality. Even as my brain was agreeing with those words, my toneless repetition of the phrase rang hollow. Even the placement of the phrase was suspect. I told her, "Yeah, it looks like I can't go home for Christmas. I'm fine." I told her, "I'm so behind on homework, I already feel like I can't catch up. I'm fine." I told her, "Yeah, I haven't really made friends in my classes. But it's fine."

So my question is, how is life so simultaneously fine. . .and yet not? I have no room to be ungrateful. God has provided in every way that I've asked, and I really, truly have enjoyed this transition. I'm not kidding. I like being challenged; I have been incredibly blessed during what could have been a very difficult time, and on top of that, I like what I'm learning and I've been growing like that proverbial weed.

So, how, I ask you, am I so far from fine?

Settling.

I wish I had been able to keep a mental journal of all the thoughts that have been running through my mind over the past several days.

“I love transitions.”

“Wow, God, that was unnecessarily kind of you.”

“Please let me merge, please let me merge, please let me merge. . .”

I kind of feeling as though I’m having a chance to redeem my transition to Taylor. No, scratch that. My transition to Taylor was what it was, and though it was undeniably messy, I’ve been indelibly marked and changed by it.

So this is a new transition. A new opportunity to make mistakes, a new opportunity to learn and grow and be changed, to meet and enjoy new people, and learn how to love old friends well from a distance.

I’ve realized that ever since graduating and leaving behind BFA, I’ve lived with a constantly-running mental hourglass. When I went to Taylor, I never (not once in four years) voluntarily rearranged a room or decorated. I loved the people at Taylor, but I refused to become attached to the place. Last year was particularly "bad" in that sense. I participated in a ton of Taylor events, but when it came time to spend actual time with friends, I shied away, knowing full well that graduation and goodbyes were looming.

That, I find now, was a mistake. It’s not one I particularly regret, but it is one I won’t repeat again. I’ve already talked to my landlady here about extending my lease, and I could potentially be in this house until I am ready to head back overseas.

I’m settling. The other day I rearranged my room. I’ve sketched out decorating ideas. I’m checking out what I can plant in the garden.

I’m determined that this will be a home. And even if I end up moving in May, I will pack up my fresh herbs, and the cute little curtains I plan to sew as soon as I set up the cute little sewing area I’ve planned for one corner of my room (have I mentioned that I am an excellent dreamer?), and I will take my home elsewhere. For transition, as I have learned, is meant to be transient. I’ve forced myself to live in a state of perpetual pseudo-transition for years now; it’s time to roost.

Recent transitiony thoughts

I wrote a calm, well-thought-out post a few days ago after having moved into my new home. I trust you will see that at some point in the next few days, but for now, I'm trying to capture some of the whirlwind my brain, emotions, and entire being (I'm allowed a little drama, right?) have gone through in the past few days.

Monday was orientation, which was a good theory and effort on the part of the school, but which mainly served to completely disorient me.

I've had my first three classes, experienced the same conversations about 68 times with others in the seminary and graduate school, and already pulled a late night to finish my Counseling Techniques homework the night before it was due. I'm definitely not in Kansas anymore.

I am happy to report that this is the best transition I have ever experienced. I've yet to have a breakdown, though I'm expecting one about halfway through my next Psychopathology course. I've managed to do the things I need to do and only called my parents once for emotional support (the other 8,000 times were to give me Internet information I needed. . .we're still waiting to get the Internet set up at home).

Sure, it's been a transition. My brain is so full it feels swollen, and I'm still much more conscious than I want to be about the way I present myself to others; I get lost on this tiny little campus more than I want to admit, and I still pray every time I have to merge onto the freeway outside my house. I feel all the dazed uncertainty I hope is normal for this kind of experience.

But I'm much better equipped to handle it than in other transitions. I'm appreciating the opportunity to break up my comfort zone and re-establish it along broader lines. And while it's not comfortable, there's an underlying excitement and peace in knowing that someday soon the dust will settle and I will hopefully be a person of greater depth and adaptability than I have hitherto known. The decisions I am making right now: to talk to someone or not; to face a problem or avoid it; to ask a question that may sound dumb in class, etc. are developing me for my next transitions. So, because hands on practice like this doesn't come along every day, I'm trying to immerse myself as fearlessly and completely in this moment as possible. Fellow transitioners, my hope is that you will find the Source of strength to be able to do the same.

Christian Living and Dr. Pepper

I bought a can of Dr. Pepper the other day, and as I studied the can on my way back to my library study room (aka: home), I was struck by how many injustices are wrapped up in or represented by that seemingly innocuous little beverage.

Take, for example, the aluminum can. I'm all for utilizing the world's resources wisely. The use of a valuable and nonrenewable resource to package a totally unnecessary beverage doesn't seem to fit within those parameters.

We've all heard the reports about there being 1/4 of a cup of sugar per can of soda/pop/soda pop, and that's just the beginning of American sugar consumption. Unfortunately, many people either don't know or turn a blind eye to the fact that a lot of the sugar used in the US (I've heard 2/3--more on that in some future post) is harvested by trafficked persons/slaves.
http://www.sugarbabiesfilm.com/cgi-local/content.cgi?pg=3

The high fructose corn syrup in the soda is made from a product riddled with controversy. For example, the corn used in ethanol production is utilizing precious food sources--and a lot of them--to fuel cars. American farming companies have also been known to plant their hybrid, genetically modified corn products near the land of organic small farmers. The corn cross-pollinates, and the organic farmer, who can no longer sell his corn as "organic," can no longer compete.

The can from which I was drinking had been shipped from Texas. Close-to-the-border factory works screams undocumented immigration to me. Regardless of where you stand on this issue, I think we can all agree that there is injustice happening somewhere down the line to cause people to be willing to give up their homes and families in order to sneak into another country and work in poor conditions for low wages.

That one little can of Dr. Pepper had 150 calories, 55 mg of sodium, and 40 grams of sugars. I wouldn't necessarily blame the companies for selling crap-- I'm all about taking personal responsibility. Yet something still irks me about how utterly unhealthful this product is.

The energy put in to ship the can from Texas to Indiana and then to keep the can cold for days on end in the little vending machine seems inordinately wasteful, considering how unnecessary the product ultimately is.

I've also noted that food advertising (I can't speak specifically to Dr. Pepper here, as I don't watch enough TV) has become ridiculously sexual of late. You know, the guy buys this food, and suddenly Ms. Hot Thang notices him. Women, particularly the unclothed variety, are being used to sell more and more these days, and I have no profound way to express my anger toward that brand of degradation.

Finally, there's the attitude inherent in the billing of said drink as special. The name brand, the "authentic blend of 23 flavors" advertised on the can just feed into the mindset of the consumer: I want the name brand, I want the 23 flavors (because 22 just wouldn't do), I want the best, me first. . ." It's this attitude that ultimately drives most of the world's injustice.

Shoot. . .I hate it when I make these observations about things I love.