"You dropped something," you declared. Realizing you were referring to the peach pit I'd tossed into the grass, I turned to hear what you had to say. "Do you live in this neighborhood?" you asked accusingly—passive aggressively transmitting your message: You live here and you didn't like that I tossed something compostable into the grass. I offered to throw it into a compost bin, but you proceeded to condescendingly, angrily lecture me like I was stupid. You were petty. If I'd wanted to be petty too, I could have asked you what you were doing living in a predominantly, historically black and Asian neighborhood. I could have pointed out that you were gentrifying and that's probably worse than returning a compostable piece of nature back into nature. I shouldn't be surprised—it's the vacuous politics of most white, middle-class liberals in Seattle, after all: militant about recycling, consumer choices, voting for corporate Democrats, but little else. I wish I had said something in my defense, but I was in such disbelief at your righteous indignation over something so minor. Anyway, I left the peach pit, and fuck you.

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