Every morning at 5 am I go online and post a beautiful essay in defense of vegetarianism. Every day at noon I eat a burger. I’m not a hypocrite, at least at 5 am I’m not a hypocrite, I genuinely feel sad for the suffering of cows, especially those in factory farms. At noon there is nothing I would like more than to eat a burger from in and out, especially one with cheese and bacon.
Sometimes at 1 pm I think “Those beautiful essays are by a different guy, a better guy who is forced to share a body with my gross, and greasy, self-indulgent self.” And sometimes I think “Those beautiful essays are by a fragile, brittle self-conception, floating around issuing moral pronouncements, echoing parental shaming from long ago — a ghost in the bombed-out city.” More often, I don’t think at all.
Sometimes I think, I know this, I got this. I am a “vegetarian at 5 am, burger-binger at noon” and that’s a thing. Why isn’t that a thing? You do you, they say, and I do me. I do! I do. Me is what I do. And that — veg burger-binger — is what — one of the what’s — doing me is. And I do it! And I’m good at it! The only person who is able to do me, by definition is me.
An interesting way to look at it, and also utterly fatuous, since the only person able to fail to do me, is guess who.