Crustacean Sympathizer

A lovely evening indeed. A few minor bumps in the earlier bits, but the rest of my night was eventful enough that I remain faithful in my attempts to chill-the-fuck-out and feel my way through life and fate and stuff instead of trying to formulate a logical strategy with which to take life. I'm not a logical being, and you'd think I'd have figured that out by now.

During the hour or so we had to kill before the movie, we wound up in an Asian supermarket. Initially, I was thrilled and intrigued by the shelves stocked with foreign and interesting products, most of which I couldn't identify - some of which I could, but only with the extremely Caucasian sense of naive pride. I was aware of how silly and white I may have looked to those who frequent the store, but I didn't care. They had taro ice cream. And, everyone knows; you have to light up and squeal when you see taro ice cream.

Anyways, everything was fine and dandy until we approached the apparent source of the mildly fishy smell that had been offhandedly mentioned and haunting our white-delight. On the back wall of the store (where, in a Canadian Safeway or IGA or whatever, the deli or pharmacy would be), there was a wall of tanks holding seafood of sorts. Again, I was excited at first, and I trotted lightly over to the bin of clams and scallops or whatever. No big deal, except they were beautiful and larger than any shells I'd seen. But my gaze ran down the remaining tanks, and there were live lobsters, live crabs, and behind these bins - fish. Tanks and tanks of fish. In each tank there was a bottom layer of dead or sick or surrendered fish, and the rest of them were either swimming blindly or floating upside-down. It was absolutely disgusting. In the tank of bullheads (big, beautiful fish with what would have been enormous, glossy eyes), one fish was vertical - nose to the top and tail to the bottom of the tank - moving in futility, trying to right itself. Some were decomposing, and the rest were inevitably diseased by their living conditions.

I suppose it isn't right for me to judge other peoples actions, but I couldn't help but want to speak up to the man who lifted a lobster out of the tank with tongs and swore in disgust as one of it's claws lifted out of the basket. I wanted to grab as many of them as possible, book it, and then let them free in the ocean. As said before, logic evades me.

Part of me feels as though the anger that mans action inspired in me should be compared to the complacency with which I buy luncheon meat from my own, familiar, Canadian grocery stores. Though I'm unfamiliar with the conditions under which my own meat was prepared, I can be certain that the priority of the suppliers was not the well being of the slaughtered animals. As with any business, I'm quite sure they are simply striving for efficiency, and, consequently, profit. Mistreated animals are everywhere, and my disgust at the man with his own metal claw makes me realize that perhaps I should apply that disgust to my own familiar habits.

In a world where people will believe what they read on their cereal boxes, dirty little time or money-saving secrets are either shrouded by the darkness of ignorance or apathy, or simply ignored; because it's always easier than fighting the 'norm'... Even if the 'norm' is entirely fucked up.
As my French teacher once said, "C'est difficile de faire tomber la machine."


I just sometimes wish that people had their priorities straight, y'know? But alas, this world is fucked up. And while that fact doesn't condemn it to a perpetual, unchanging world of darkness, sometimes these things can be stubborn.

Hopelessness inspires helplessness, and I know I'm not the only one who's written an angsty blogpost about the state of the world. Who knows - maybe one day we'll all find each other and see what we can do about this mess.

For now, though, I'm going to go to sleep. I may be a bit of a bleeding heart or whatever that means, but I think I've learned to keep it from crippling me emotionally. I remember one night in grade 7 or so when I lay awake in bed for the entire night sobbing, entirely inconsolable, about the puppies at the SPCA. Tonight, after word-vomiting my frustration into the internet, I believe I will sleep soundly after some prayer. I am thankful for the awareness, though it isn't an easy burden to carry when seemingly everyone else is so blissfully oblivious. That is ignorant of me to say, since I know that it's the case. I suppose I'm just pouting.

Goodnight.