February 7, 2004
I’m a psychologist in an HIV clinic. I meet people every day who have problems like, “I just found out I have HIV, and I’m seven months pregnant, and I don’t have anywhere to live or enough money for food.” I face common diagnostic questions like, “is this person just crazy, or has HIV irrevocably eaten away part of her brain?” I worry about things like, “Do I even want to know whether that psychotic guy brings a gun to the clinic?” “Family values” problems in my world are things like, “Ever since I told my parents I have HIV, they make me eat off a paper plate when I visit.”[12:41 AM]
I actually love my job. But it’s spoiled me for modern living, because I come home from the clinic, log on to my computer and read things like this:But strangely enough, I’m feeling another emotion besides anger. I feel overwhelmed by sadness at this most recent (and most prominent) example of the flush of our nation’s cesspool we call prime-time entertainment. Sure, I was shocked and appalled by what these performers did. But I can’t shake this pervasive feeling of sadness. So many people to feel sorry for, so much hurt and harm done by one tasteless, classless act on an international stage like halftime of the Super Bowl.…and I don’t know whether to laugh, cry, or go batshit crazy myself. “So much hurt and harm done.” By a breast.
See, this is why people don’t invite me to parties.