Sitting in my computer chair as the IT guy complained with his Swanson beef breath about a change in scoring regulations for his bowling league, I’d realized that it was the great desire of my heart to have the trappings of a bourgeois life, soft and warm as a cashmere sweater. I wanted this, and I wanted this because it had been relentlessly sold to me with the aggressiveness of a Bangalore street hawker. Had been marketed to me since I was fourteen and looking at the advertisements over the airport phone booths while we waited in line for O’Hare Customs and Immigration. To shame me for
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