In Soviet Russia, there used to be something called a Coke party. You saved up money for days to buy a single can of contraband Coca-Cola. You got all of your friends together and poured each of them a single shot. It tasted like freedom.
I know this isn’t the point of the piece, but this got to me. However much I appreciate my existence, it never quite seems to be enough to be calibrated to things like this. I suddenly feel both a deep appreciation and vague guilt. Though it does give me a new gratitude exercise—imagine the item I am about to enjoy is forbidden in my country and I have acquired a small sample at great expense.
I know this isn’t the point of the piece, but this got to me. However much I appreciate my existence, it never quite seems to be enough to be calibrated to things like this. I suddenly feel both a deep appreciation and vague guilt. Though it does give me a new gratitude exercise—imagine the item I am about to enjoy is forbidden in my country and I have acquired a small sample at great expense.