Subculture

You’ll find us down at the local coffeehouse, reading something enriching while we nurse our personal cups, our Subarus and bicycles of different colors all parked in a perfect row for a moment, before we parade off, one by one, to yoga class or the gym, eager to slip out of our absurdly-comfortable northern-central European shoes.

We have the best of everything, depending on how you look at it and what you value, and yet we begrudge it all just the same. A little Anglo-Saxon self-loathing is to be expected. Sometimes we sulk about it while trying to ignore ourselves, when we’re not too busy verbalizing how thankful we are, as if gratitude were a micro-smoothie made with thirteen ingredients: a mystical herb from South America, and twelve locally grown organic varieties of free-range chickenshit.

We are prone to allergies, buy a good deal of our food in bulk, hate chemicals, and plan to get off the grid someday, but will want to keep our computers and cellphones and good stereos, which, by that time, will hopefully be available as a microchip implanted just beneath the skin where our third eye would be – a perfect union of technology and spirituality. That’ll be nice, not having to look at all these sleek metallic objects anymore.

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