Full disclosure: I have a "crisis" at least once a day that involves hair tearing, high-pitched squeals, and scribbling in a journal. My friends have been witness to many of these crises, and while it's always amusing for them to watch a freak-out about what my facial expressions look like, it feels increasingly high school to bemoan such tiny parts of my life. College, as it turns out, isn't purely about self-discovery through poorly hired DJs--mainly, I have discovered that my life doesn't suck nearly as much as I thought. English class has gone from drilling "I before E, except on weekends and holidays" into our heads to realizing that a lack of tacos for dinner is nothing comparing to a poor Irish family whose father drinks away all their grocery money. I mean, seriously--reading Angela's Ashes makes me want to chuck my new pair of heels out the window and go volunteer in a soup kitchen for a few centuries.
Or what about kids who grow up with worms in their guts? Here I am, bitching about some bad pasta, while poor families are eating worms! I almost want to feel shame in the luxury in having money to spare to open up a textbook that tells us we're all greedy little children who care too little for the rest of the world. Should all my past uncomfortable situations be erased because they all happened under a roof and with multitudes of pudding in the fridge?
What distinguishes a true crisis? Is it measured in the discomfort the sufferer feels, or in the suffering around them?
Food for thought. Namaste, friends.
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