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Here is the Peggy McIntosh piece for people who are unfamiliar with it. I don't know whether this is a riff off of Peggy McIntosh's list of privileges or not. I found this author to be showing that this version of a privileged life is pretty awful. I'm caught by a few of these passages that express a vague hopelessness and the explicit grasping for rationalization in the face of guilt/self-awareness.
I think the entire piece is a fiction intending to show hopelessness and emptiness and unhappiness in this so-called life of privilege. It's quite tongue-in-cheeky and full of mock self-awareness, but the picture of privilege that he is deliberately presenting seems to me to be a lonely sad one. ixnar, do you think it is memoir or fiction?