Lunch

I always feel guilty as I move through the Chick-fil-a line. I wonder if the workers at the eco-friendly and healthy restaurant beside the fast food establishment are sad as people stream by them, making the wrong choice, diving for processed chicken nuggets and trans-fat filled waffle fries, while a few students with dread locks and packs of organic cigarettes select from their varied colors of healthy, locally grown mush.

My guilt deepens as I think about the politics of Chick-fil-a; I think about how they donate to causes I consider abhorrent. They hate homosexuality; they ask potential employees if they're Christian in their interviews; they're closed on Sundays. But the dining hall line is long, and I only have time to breeze through the Chick-fil-a line, give my money to causes that repress, eat the food that slowly clogs my arteries, so I can get to classes on time that are supposed to teach me critical thinking so I don't make bad choices.

It's hard to find a seat. I think about how many more people could sit here if people sat together instead of alone, each facing a computer screen instead of a human face. But nobody talks without a friend to mutually introduce them, or a shared interest discovered through happenstance. You don't meet people while you eat your chicken; you can only eat with people you know. So I am forced to squash myself into an uncomfortable corner while a person and his computer sit at a table for four. Hypocritically, I turn my ipod up louder to drown out the crowd.