Okay, so I love my hippie friends. Like, my personal utopia would be an intersectional intentional community that focuses on art, sustainability, and community works. But I’m a grounded, city-raised hippie, so I like a good steak and I’ve never wanted to live in an ashram. I don’t have a shaman or a guru. My period is my shark week, not my moon time. In short, I’m not what one might describe as a “starchild.” None of my friends are starchildren. Quite a few of my acquaintances and friends-of-friends are. And occasionally, I have to talk to these people whose minds exist only on a celestial plain about about real world issues, lord help me.
Their commentary is so nebulous and contradictory and that there’s almost nothing you can seize on for reply, and all that comes to the fore is the thick din of far-left liberal smugness directed at your paltry, unevolved opinion.
They dismiss you as bogged down in the semantics of the human realm for making distinctions between concepts like “race” vs. “racism,” or for simply choosing to communicate by typing dictionary-defined words instead of releasing the vibrations of whatever higher frequency they’ve achieved in the wake of their recent guided ayahuasca journey.
And when you call them out for their beaming condescension, they insist that we’re all one entity and everything is love and that you would see that too if you weren’t so indoctrinated by all the Western propaganda.
And of course they’re voting for Jill Stein.