I am, therefore i dont want to be

You order something from a kiosk under the tab "poke". It says to pick it up from the poke counter.

You stare at the counters. They are labeled:

Bowl

Toss

Mix

Asian

Deli

Which presents a philosophical conundrum.

Poke is officially classified as a Hawaiian fish salad. The use of "salad" here is, of course, very liberal. But nonetheless, this is how it is often described. So your eyesand your thoughts drift back to the "toss" label, knowing that this likely indicates a form of salad bar.

And yet, poke has a variety of Asian influences, to the point where modern poke is unable to be detangled from those influences. Especially in the glassy, corporate building you currently stand in, where actual cultural influences on the food presented are watered down to the point of nonsensicality. A quick wandering of the eyes over to the "Asian" counter, however, indicates a broadly Chinese-american range of food, essentially mimicking the fast food establishment named after a black and white ursid.

Bowl. The word glares at you like the shining eyes of a predator reflecting the light of your lantern in the bush. While grateful for the work, already you feel the sterile culture brought about by white collar america. Emblemmatic of that culture has been this simple word: formerly solely the name of a serving dish, "Bowl" has come to mean the food itself. Your meal will be served in a compostable carton, not a bowl. And yet you know that the so-called "slop bowl", fast becoming a symbol of the gentrified world around us, could still refer to your layers of protein, leaves, and grains.

But such a simple noun is not the most confusing word in the set. No, as your eyes scan, you are reminded yet again of the confounding "Mix". Befuddlement strikes you like lightning. Food that does not require at least some degree of mixing is exceedingly rare, and unlike "Toss", this verb is not even associated with a particular kind of food. So what was this particular "bowl" referring to? The majority of food options on display could be described in some capacity as a "bowl", and yet you see other employees grabbing various "bowls" from other counters.

Deli couldn't be it. It couldn't, right? Deli implies cured meats, bread, sandwiches, all of which are nothing like the dish you selected. But at this point, your brain is too wrapped up in thoughts about food classification that you're beginning to question reality.

Further complicating the matter is that the meal in question is not, in fact, poke in the typical sense. For one of the protein options was tofu, and as a sensible citizen of the world with significantly increasing proportions of fully plant based consumption, your fingers tapped 1sthat option withouit much further thought. Your meal is further declassified, an unthemed, asynchronous mixture of photosynthetic organisms, both land and sea.

And so you stare at the labels again. Is this a test of your intelligence? Of your patience? Or are the majority of people using this dining hall simply so entrenched in their routine that they know where their food will appear implicitly? As a more fresh worker, thrown to this particular wolf alone, you do not possess this knowledge.

Perhaps you could wait until your order number is called, and simply gravitate towards where you hear it from. Act as though that was the plan all along. But in a tragic twist of events, you realize that no such calling is occuring. Dishes are sliding onto counters with only numbered tags below them, leaving it directly to the consumer to figure out where their particular dish will slide out from.

But luckily, you are experienced at being inexperienced. You pull from the depths of knowledge you have looking nonchalant on new public transit, in new cities, in new environments. The cellular telephone, a bewitched chain tethering you to often unwanted electronic communication, does have a few silver linings. And one of those it that it helps validate your wandering mind.

And so, staring at the wretched rectangle, you make a pacing pass of each counter. Miraculously, you locate your sustinence.

Out of curiosity, and a desire to resolve the disquiet of your mind, you glance upwards at what label you have fallen under.

"Bowl".

You stare back down at the cardboard rectangle containing your nourishment. Most decidedly, not a bowl.

Your brain, a fickle organ, desires to dwell on the absurdity of this situation. But your stomach, a determined beast, has decided to take the reigns.

[image 2: the periodic table of the elements, except that hydrogen and helium are in their own box labeled "Real elements", and elements 3 (lithium) through 118 (oganesson) are labeled "Mental illness".]

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