The Light at the End of the Metaphor

Just when I had bought CFL light bulbs, I got hit with the news. In a switch, The INS has turned that 'Give me your tired, your poor and huddled masses' into 'Give me your lucky, your 1 of 3.'

You know that flame that rides atop Her Ladyship Liberty's cone? I wanted to replace that flame with a compact florescent. I wanted something long-lasting. It would save money and it was the right thing to do. Mother would approve of the low wattage, and I had found that IKEA ones have a mild glow that almost incandesce.

So there I was, looking to the future; five, maybe ten years that we could watch that baby burn and see whether the music, when it's over, herald the light's adieu.

Instead it was the "I" in the INS's invisible I N K , that would make my legal goodbye legible, and would make the inevitable flip of the script.

Five dollars for each bulb. A social experiment meant to accrue the due, passing the savings on to—me, true. But now what am I to do? Post a personal on craigslist? "Expedited expatriate needs to pass the torch; they passed on me so I'm passing the savings on to you; fully paid; some installment necessary; ask not which Watt! what you can do is ask rather what your country has done for you."

"Give me your tired, your poor and huddled masses." With luck, they won't pass the dim bulbs onto you. Just the ones that last and pay you back.