. . . and I kind of hate myself because it feels gluttonous for one person to have so much.
But then I think, “Why hate myself for something I like if I have the means and it’s not hurting anyone? I am supporting wineries after all.”
But then I think, “Well, it is kind of hurting me. I mean, alcohol is a poison and its impact on society as a whole is not wholly good. Is it? Guess that’s the impression I get; I haven’t read the studies. I am not an informed consumer. Feels like that’s a confession-worthy sin. Do the wineries treat their employees well? Am I going to read an article a year from now telling me how awful they are for the environment? Kind of snobby/privileged thing to support isn’t it? Why not just leave your estate to the greens maintenance department at the local country club?! God damn it, get your priorities straight!!!”
It’s a lot to think about.
Then the devil whispers in from the other shoulder, “Who cares? You’re gonna grow old and die and—eventually—the sun will go through its lifecycle and life won’t exist, and so who gives a shit about your wine closet?”
Volley my head to the other side and I hear, “Just, you know, donate to worthwhile charities and stuff and don’t leave the lights on when you’re not in the room.”
To make the labels, I took a cardboard box and, using a table saw, cut it into two-and-a-half-inch strips. (This does not smell good.)
Then took those strips and, using horrifyingly unsafe technique (probably), cut them into squares. I already had a one-and-a-half-inch hole saw to key into a drill press to convert them into something that’d slip over the bottle’s neck. (This gets old quickly.)
(Discursion: check out this tool lover poem.)