I’ve been watching a documentary on Netflix streaming (thank you, mighty PS3, for the visual and auditory gifts you continue to give me; I will lay upon your smooth plastic vessel a bag of pork rinds, as is your bidding) called No Impact Man, about this New York blog writer who decides to live for a year as environmentally low impact as possible. Solar energy instead of Edison’s electricity. Box o’ mulch in his apartment. Nothing that comes in Styrofoam or plastic containers. Biking and walking instead of the subway and buses. No elevators. And so on. He forces his family into it (See his wife live without Starbucks! See his young daughter wear cloth diapers and join Daddy in stomping in a tub filled with their dirty clothes, because washing machines waste water and power!) and I guess in the end they all learn something. I dunno. I haven’t finished watching it yet. And I will, I am enjoying it very much, and it’s got me thinking about my carbon footprint and the impact I am having on the planet.
And I am thinking fuck it.
I have decided that, thus far, I have not made enough of an impact on this planet. I want this world to buckle under the weight of my Styrofoam meat containers. (Insert evil villain laugh here.) I have decided to become . . .
HIGH IMPACT WOMAN!
Thus begins my first day of leaving the biggest carbon footprint I possibly can.
More to come, planet Earth.
Much, much more. (Insert another evil villain laugh here.)*
*This is meant to be what the Quakers call satire. It is a joke. Do not send me a bunch of angry hippie messages. Angry hippie messages make baby polar bears cry.