By Frisk Phillips
While ordering a pizza today, I had to wait a little longer because the couple in front of me struggled to decide whether the “lumpy cheese” was feta, mozzarella, or parmesan.
It was feta.
At first, I was harshly judgemental. Being an Australian, I was used to the stereotypical bogan, but these two seemed to exceed that, reaching near Red-Neck levels of profile. Between them, it could be presumed this wasn’t the first pizza they had ever ordered, and in fact, I could almost see the previous 200-300 pizzas lining their under arms and stomachs.
The man had a mullet.
The lady, a lanyard with a glittery pen, a few keys, and just generically shiny and jingling stuff.
And while not relevant, the lady seemed to be missing some finger nails.
For 10 to 15 minutes I shared the waiting room with this couple. I quickly pulled out my phone. They quickly introduced their intellectual topic for the evening; “Is it worst to be constipated, or have the runs”.
Now, to their credit, I think the small TV in the corner of the room for patrons had played an advertisement concerning bowel movements. And it was as they talked that I noticed that our lifestyles, both socio-economically and taste wise could not be less comparable. Because here sat two people, debatably in love, questionably attracted to each other aesthetically, both struggling to stay on their sits as their bodies jiggled to tales of awkward flatulence.
But it wasn’t a sad jiggling, it was one of innocent happiness.
I had driven to the pizza store, and had passed several power poles on the way, and had very really (as much as I perceived) considered driving into them, disregarding the life of my passenger. Before this, I had sat for two hours in a church, for the funeral of an old lady I didn’t know, the whole time bordering on tears as the people, packed in pews like sardines, sang.
The effect on beautiful lady had on so many people, and the effect I had on none fuelled a disgusting expression of egotism, in a funeral that wasn’t my own.
And it was looking at these happy people, waiting for their ham and cheese, that I questioned my own retort towards life.
Depression is a privilege for the upper-class alone. Kurt Cobain did not starve, and Elliot Smith did not freeze. Rather then focus on how to make money, to buy food, we, as capitalists have the spare to invent philosophy.
Philosophy is responsible for the depression of the first world, the fall of the second, and so far, hasn’t the temperature to grow in the third world.
Thousands of people live and die without questioning the human condition every day. An Ethiopian child doesn’t starve because they object to the establishment, or because they are a masochist, but because they cannot order a ham and cheese (with feta).
So, the question is, in a generation of plenty, why do we lack a final sense of satisfaction, and does someone with nothing question life during puberty.
My satisfaction with the physical, make’s me imagine I am emotional deprived, while my caravan friends humour leaves them content enough to keep their large array of shotguns out of their mouths.