I'm just a writer from the ghetto like Malorie Black

One of the most difficult things I went through about attending Imagine Cup (last minute hustle, 30 hours of flying, long story) is the infectiousness of purpose.

The worst thing about having gone to the Imagine Cup, is after presenting a project that looks to make a difference in the world, and seeing hundreds of kids from every groove in this planet focusing on making the earth better, going back to being a suitmonkey dancing the corporate mamba. It makes me throw up a little bit.

I guess that's where some of yesterday's sentiment stems from as well; the fact that I'm competent and able to make a living/salary/money doing this job (and doing this), and the burden, in potentia, of being able to work towards some kind of social constructiveness.

It doesn't help that I work in a capitalistic pit while my parents teach and doctor in the public arena, the sibling looks for cures to cancer, and the people I generally like do great and important things to help and build and rebuild.

I complain a lot.

So yes, purposeness when you're not living out any can weigh down heavily on a guilty conscience. On occasion I feel compelled to sit at a table and be a socially productive citizen, with the premise that I generate business value all the time, surely I can apply myself for five minutes and be a proper citizen of the planet.

Blorg.

I wish I worked for Leslie Knope. Working life would be more sensible if I worked for Leslie Knope.