Going barefoot and personal responsibility

Oh it could have been, should have been, worse than you would ever know.
Well the wind shield was broken but I love the fresh air you know (the dashboard melted but we still have the radio).
~Modest Mouse, “Dashboard”

A few months ago I was told that I could not go barefoot into my favorite bookstore (an actual bookstore, not the library). Why? Because I could have had my foot run over by one of the carts that hang out all over the place. A cart. On my foot. And that’s why I can’t go barefoot in the store.

So why am I not required to wear a helmet in case a book falls off the shelf? Or long-sleeves and gloves in case I get a papercut?

Seriously. This whole “Oh my god I tripped over a rock in your yard and broke my ankle you’ll hear from my lawyer!!!11!!one” bullshit needs to stop. If I’m walking down the street barefoot and I step on a piece of glass I’m not going to fucking sue the city for it. Jesus, if I didn’t want to risk cutting my foot open I wouldn’t go barefoot. My responsibility.

I’m not supposed to go barefoot into the restaurant I work at when I’m off the clock. Not because there’s some health code violation going on (that’s only if I’m actively working), but because my boss says there might be sharp things on the floor. What. the. fuck. I clean that floor myself. If there was a sharp thing on it and I was working lobby my ass would be over a fire. But apparently that’s not good enough. No, we have to avoid all risks, even though I’m more at risk giving myself second-degree burns from hot queso or refried beans than anything else. Of course, my other job’s a different story. That’s the job where I occasionally stop and use a pocketknife to dig out the glass shards that have embedded themselves in the soles of my sneakers.

No shit, Sherlock. The coffee’s fucking hot. Do not eat the candle, no matter what it smells like. Keep the hot iron off your clothes if you happen to be wearing them. What the hell happened to our brains? No, McDonald’s did not make you fat. No one yet has come up with an ad that puts a gun to your head unless you get a fucking Super-size meal. Until then, you have no business suing someone because you are an idiot. Now, if the employee poured hot coffee in your lap on purpose, that’s different. But if you, yourself, accidentally fuck yourself over, that’s your own damn fault, put on your big girl panties, swear a few times, and move on. You don’t see me suing the university I graduated from because I couldn’t find a decent-paying job. I should, however, sue them for wasting perfectly good money on a Jumbotron and a giant class ring statue.

So even though this is supposed to be the land of the mother-fucking free or something, we’re told that, well, you can’t do this. Or that. And we’re going to just go ahead and make sure you can’t do it. Because we think it’s a bad idea, regardless.

Some days I feel like I live in fucking Never Never Land.