I was staring at the little white mouse while kneeling in my rarely-mopped bathroom. I flicked the baggie with my index finger and a question jet-skied across my slopes; how did this get here?
It was grown in the hills of Colombia by someone who was likely toting a semi or fully automatic weapon. The FARC is a noted supplier of the North American drug market but I have read articles (on BBC?) that their paramilitary counterparts (affiliated with the US-backed Colombian government) also have their place in the drugriculture scene. After being chopped and ground up into tiny slimy yellow grains, it was packed into blocks and carried north through sweaty verdant jungles by stoic foot soldiers. Do they use boats? Planes? I have even heard reports of submarines being used to get drugs onto the American continent.
Rather than digressing on the minutia of the drug smuggling process, I would rather bring the moral case to the forefront. I am an unabashed drug consumer and have always felt that as long as a substance's positive effects outweighed its negatives, it should be legally available. I felt safe in my glistening palace of rebel dream logic and sure that I was on the moral high ground.
I fear that I was wrong.
Because the war on drugs imprisons people that get caught smuggling drugs for me, I am a bad person. With each purchase, I am buying the lives of countless mules, soldiers, police officers, innocent civilians, and even drug lords (they're people too!).
Perhaps my moral compass has finally pointed towards something that fits with a secular humanist viewpoint. Instead of reveling in my savage cityscape until all hours of the night, the morally correct thing to do would be to avoid the stuff altogether unless I can talk to the grower personally.