I am vociferously passionate about good books. And I hate adverbs.
As long as South Africa enforced Apartheid, I refused to buy produce marked Made in S.A.
When France started bombing the Mururoa atolls with nuclear bombs in 1994, I stopped buying French wine, cars, and clothes.
I buy shade grown, Fair Trade coffee.
My detergents are certified.
The fruit and vegetables I buy mostly come from local producers who use ecological standards for growing them.
The little meat I buy comes from certified farmers who let their animals have lives before becoming my food.
I stopped shopping in a beautiful place when I heard the owner saying hateful, hateful things about gay people.
I turned down an extremely well-paid translation job because the client was Exxon.
I bring my hard-earned cash to those I believe are trying their best to do the right thing.
It is all I can do to try to make the world a better place, small things, but they matter to me.
This list could go on and on, but I think you’ve gotten the idea by now.
But. But. But.
Goodreads, you pissed on all my good actions.
Goodreads, you pissed on my taking a stand, making informed decisions as to where my money should go.
Suddenly, in this one field of my life, I am not allowed to have a conscience, or put my money where my mouth is.
No, Goodreads, you want me to ignore any fuquery an author may commit on his or her “free” time, because you say it has no bearing on the product, which is his or her book. Even if the author is a raving gay-bashing lunatic.
Well, excuse me Goodreads. You have just not understood one single, fucking thing about me.