Moral Luck. And Bacon.
Bacon and paracetamol. I shuffle towards the counter, but then feel weird about these things being the sum of my purchases, especially since its six thirty on a Sunday morning, and so I go back and add a half-gallon of orange juice to round things out. Not that this helps with the ‘clearly-you’re-hungover-AF’ ambiance thing I’ve got going on. Only I’m not. Its more that I’m over forty and I didn’t get my eight hours, but I appreciate that the smirking clerk thinks I can still party like a Rock-star.
I get home and my wife asks me politely to grate some nut-meg. I obviously feel hard done by this request, having just picked up my Playstation controller, (its Fathers-days after all!) and so I flounce into the kitchen and start to angry-grate… which means I slip, fumble the nutmeg seed and chop off the tip of my index finger.
I get benched soon after, my better half (apparently) taking umbrage at the 0-positive to Apple crumble ratio I am now responsible for. For my efforts I am banished to the sofa, where I get to sit and contemplate my new Elsa band-aid (apparently we have nothing else) as well as my generally poor attitude this morning.
Its started out as that sort of a day.
I reach for my iPad with the intention of Disney plus-ing myself into a safe space. Only I end up reading my book-notes on Notability instead.
Which I haven’t updated in ages. Because… well I’m a bit of a lout that hasn’t been reading anything of substance lately. In fact, my last entry isn’t even a book. Its notes I took from a Coleman Hughes podcast. Which I remember now I haven’t even finished (and has likely been added to the ever burgeoning and really now, completely unconquerable to-do list that is my-so-called life)
Oh yeah…. this is pretty cool I muse.
I’ve headlined it as Moral Luck
The premise is… and maybe you’ll forgive me if this isn’t exactly Coleman-canon (truth-be-told I’m not the most coherent and/or super accurate note taker in the world).
Wait… maybe its easier to just screenshot it
I must be honest… I’ve texted while driving. And my… waywardness has never caused anyone to die.
… as far as I know.
I’ve been lucky. Or maybe I’ve just not been unlucky. Since, if we were to distill it down to something as simple as the roll of the die, the chances of something bad happening are not zero. I mean I’ve never really thought about texting particularly deeply before (as an ethical conundrum). But actions have consequences right? Even actions that seem, on the surface, either innocuous or have such a low probability of a negative outcome they shouldn’t really occupy a great deal of our mental real estate. But if I did kill someone (while texting), I should be accepting of my fate because I am a bad person.
Ha! easier said than done I cerebrate.
And yes. I don’t think its great that if someone utters an errant racist term their career should be cancelled to the point of no return. And if I squished someone at a pedestrian crossing I obviously hope the lesser consequence to my action would apply.
Although, if I was the parent of the toddler I just crushed under my all terrain mud hybrids because I was texting, wouldn’t I want maximum retribution?
I mean I probably would.
The bacon is for breakfast (by the way). And the Apple crumble is for this afternoon when my in-laws come over for tea. It suddenly dawns on me that maybe I wasn’t entirely clear about this at the outset. I mean before we went down the ethics morality sticky wicket rabbit hole… and my eh… career ending injury.
I’m starting to seep through my plaster and onto my MacBook. Knowing Apple there’s probably some blood indicator strip that’s being chemically activated right now. “I’m sorry sir, we can’t repair your MacBook because it’s been exposed to hemoglobin”.
God I’d be pissed off
Also breakfast is ready.
In any event I think the take aways are. Don’t text and drive. Eat bacon. And try to keep as many of your internal fluids, eh… as internal as possible.
Rules to live by.
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