The Chronicles Of Jessica

He may seem harmless, but this bear? Raping the environment.

From today's New York Times:

Although brands differ, 25 percent to 50 percent of the pulp used to make toilet paper in this country comes from tree farms in South America and the United States. The rest, environmental groups say, comes mostly from old, second-growth forests that serve as important absorbers of carbon dioxide, the main heat-trapping gas linked to global warming.

Great. Now I can't even make a poo without having to feel guilty about destroying the ozone layer. Every day it's something. I cannot take this daily onslaught of guilt! I feel bad on the way to work for not giving the schizophrenic with the hand-crayoned sign some of my money. Then I feel bad because every day I notice that his sign says, "Please help - homely" instead of homeless, and I've never pointed this out for him. Then I feel bad because maybe he didn't put 'homely' by accident and he really is panhandling because of low self-esteem about his personal appearance. I'd like to be able to cheer him up about his appearance but truthfully he's no Hugh Jackman. Maybe it's the teeth. (He needs more of them.)

I feel guilty if I don't hit the button in time for the elevator straggler to make it on before the doors close. I feel guilty if I take too long fishing my key card out of my bag and the receptionist has to buzz me in. Then I feel guilty if I happen to be the person to take the last mini-moo creamer at the coffee station because everyone else will have to settle for powdered coffeemate. (I also have guilt over my secret mini-moo creamer stash in my top desk drawer but not enough to disclose it, lest I would have to share.)

Then I hate myself for not recycling enough. Like today, I had to throw away a ball-point pen. Was I supposed to recycle that pen? Maybe only parts of it are recyclable. Should I have gone online and researched whether it was recyclable and then taken it apart to make sure it got reused properly? Which bin would it go in? And what happens to the bits that aren't recyclable? They wind up in a landfill for all eternity and my unborn children's children's children will wind up drowning in garbage, cursing their ancestors' laziness and wasteful ways.

As I head off to lunch I feel guilty for saying, "I'm starved!" when clearly I'm not. Lots of people are starving but I'm not one of them. In fact I had a decent sized breakfast just three hours ago with a healthy mix of carbs and protein; there's no real reason for me to be this hungry but I am. Of course then I have to feel guilty over my sandwich about the poor chicken that died a horrible grisly death after living a horrible all-too-short life where he probably didn't even get to walk around much or make any chicken friends. It's no good just taking the chicken off though, because the lettuce was probably picked by some underpaid migrant workers who have to sleep in some mosquito infested tent at night after toiling all day long, afraid to talk too loudly to one another for fear that El Jefe has been hitting the bottle again and might come out in a drunken rage like he did that time back around Christmas when he threw up all over a whole row of tomato bushels which all had to be thrown out and then he docked their pay in an unprecedented example of white Anglo-Saxon greed, self-interest and pomposity.

And now it's the toilet paper. Is there not one place in this world where I can feel good about myself and my purposes? The bathroom is the one place that ought to at least be neutral - I don't need more shame, especially not in a bowel-related scenario. I may need cushier ply than my European counterparts and for that I will not apologize. I work hard, and I do a lot, and my toilet paper should provide comfort and satisfaction. I may be a greedy, overly-pampered, consumptionist land-raping American but I say this to you, New York Times: I have the decency to feel bad about it.