When I arrived home from my around-the-world adventure last year, I felt like I knew what to do with my life. I’d been ashamed in Cambodia that I knew little about the holocaust there even though it happened in my very lifetime. Assuming other Americans my age were in a similar boat, I felt like my life’s purpose should be to write, the goal being to use humor to tell the world about the world.
And then I started writing about Snooki and poo instead.
But I am again renewed in my passion after seeing this gem from Lamebook:
I’d like to first comment about how someone put a lot of time and thought into a Facebook app that tells you what kind of Asian you are. Umm…. actually, I’d like to not comment because I immediately imagine it asks racist questions like, ‘Do your parents own a convenience store, nail salon, or nothing because the Communist government won’t let them?’ Sorry. I know. Horrible. But, come on! What kind of app is that?
Anyway, the more pressing issue is the chick who thinks that Japanese people are from China.
The world needs help, my friends. Lots of help.
But based on this guy’s Facebook profile,
it seems that those who don’t read are kind of proud of it. If the only book I’d ever read was on the required list in junior high, I probably wouldn’t tell anybody. (But I’d also give books another chance. I mean… Where the Red Fern Grows? The only book? I can see why you may have been turned off, my friend, but at least try another. Read Maus if you have to. Geesh. [that’s a comic book- get it?])
Now I’ve concluded that if I try to write more about the world, the people who need to read it won’t. Therefore, back to Snooki. I kind of miss her these days. And, OMG, let’s all plan a trip to China for sushi and kimonos.
