Do you keep a secret record of what your parallel-universe self might be up to? I mean, there’s so many things you’ve unknowingly had to give up to be where you are right now, so many paths left untrodden — you would be deluded to think your inner compass was so well-calibrated, so perfectly attuned to harnessing your individual human potential, that you can comfortably claim to be the ideal version of yourself.
It was just a matter of time until I would finally succumb to the cliché of the white male pseudo-intellectual and write an entire 1000+ words of a blog post based on out-of-context David Foster Wallace quotes. But here it goes. (It’s taken from his infamous commencement address at Kenyon College.)
Or, How I Came Upon Solitary Bottles
One of the many privileges I’m given by virtue of my birth into wealth and West and whiteness and whatnot is university education. Oddly enough, whenever I’m asked what I study, people pay more attention to my minor, Philosophy, than my major, English. (My theory is that there’s some secret law outside of uni that entitles everyone — especially those with an unfounded disregard for the subject — to an opinion about the cultural merit of philosophy.)