
I passed through a series of hard and pressing events from concentrated to fresh squeezed. I like a lot of pulp in my happy orange juice life! Under my bib, clenching my soft rubber coated spoon I sat noisily in my disorders. The gnawing combination of discomfort, unappetizing foods, and the gooey mess all over my face that everybody saw but me became my protected habitat. I would smile, laugh, cry, pound my cup – utterly controlled by common instincts all the while thinking myself so original. I am fifty nine and have been out of my high chair probably a full year now.
What was it about the high chair that was so appealing? Why did I remain stuck there so long being fed naturally like the innocent animals? I felt secure behind the flat round surface where I would make my mess. I would jettison whatever whenever to the potty like floor to the pleasant sound of “plop!”. In my high chair I was king. I ruled decreeing my wishes that were instantly obeyed. When I opened my mouth things moved. When it was shut no one was able to open it up again until I was ready and convinced I’d get my way. Alas, such superior taste and refinement in food, philosophy, theology. Sexy women with sensuous figures and soft sweet Danish cheese cake faces always came to feed me. They served my ravenous appetite well. I ate and ate calling myself "consumer". I had rights, you know. The king has rights to consume unceasingly while starving every lesser being –they, primarily to serve, and I, primarily to eat. I, the better man, the one they call “your highness”. From my high chair I would attend to the pressing matters of my state to administer justice to the needy and condemn the fools dragged in with no gifts but full of charges. Everyone paid dearly for the crime of feeding me until one day there was no one left in my realm, my court, my household, my bed, my life ... only me.
I descended from my high chair last year to be for giving, so tired of always being for getting.


Salon.com
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