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Wide, Wide World of Chicken Tinga [Not Enough Tinga]

My Dearest Love,

I am sitting here, meditating, of course, on the Wide, Wide World of Chicken Tinga [Not Enough Tinga], and I have come to several startling conclusions: 1. there exists a soy-mockery of the sacred, and its name is Mock-Chicken Tinga. 2. Thought’s irreducible linearity, lacking any known parallel or infiniteness, makes it impossible to truly enjoy more than one Tinga at a time in the temporal-spatial being that our knowing is limited to. 3. Fiexta Mexicana Tinga, while presenting a metaphysically-charged vision of potential newness of name and dish, in reality uses the same letters that we already knew, and furthermore, has a spelling mistake; that is to say, sometimes a Tinga is only a Tinga (and it has too many x’s).

The final meditation on Tinga leads me to an even more startling conclusion: that is, the impossibility, or unnecessariness, of my saying something entirely “new” in the universal sense, outside of our phenomenological materiality, or the knowledge of language-as-such.

In the end, what it really means is that I am totally justified in sitting on my damp buttocks, which stick uncomfortably to a wooden bench painted light blue with latex paint that does not breathe, while I avoid my “real” work, or as Arendt would call it, my indistinguishable labor-work which constitutes the potential fulfillment of the project of modernity, and instead churn out fatuous statements on chicken dishes commonly found at the Chapel Hill Whole Foods while sipping a sinfully good cup of coffee, albeit served in a paper cup, and edit pictures using a new program that I found called “Gimp” that ironically and perhaps unknowingly makes a telling statement regarding the entire technological-modern project’s effect on the human condition.

Love,

J & E