The Classification of Living Things

by Nic Olson

I woke up as a human.

I went to school with a bunch of immigrants. We the people talked about blue collar workers and white collar workers. We went to the Fine Arts Museum to see paintings by Otto Dix and other painters and artists and nihilists. I came home, thought about how I wouldn’t consider myself a writer but if I did I would be a lazy-ass one, a student who doesn’t care about his studies, an Anglophone who will never make it in the big city, a pessimist who writes about his pessimism but calls himself a realist. I left home to see a convention of anarchists and communists and protesters, and I watched hipsters chant about G20 capitalists and fascists. I went for supper at an Irish pub with some Christians who talked about Freemasons. I wasn’t a very good vegetarian because I ate fish. I came home and read essays about Muslims and homosexuals and articles about Liberals and Conservatives and socialists. I laid in bed and thought about pacifists and philosophers and atheists and friday night hedonists and legalists.

Somehow you and I transformed from human beings to something else through the course of a single day.

I went to sleep a defeatist.

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