You know that feeling when you've just spent an entire town meeting preaching about community wealth and the importance of keeping every penny local, then you get home, totally ragged, and you just… click. Everything from dish soap to dog food, all from the big A, arriving tomorrow. It’s not even guilt, not really, just this flat, dull throb of hypocrisy, like a phantom limb ache from a choice you didn't even *choose*, just defaulted to. Sometimes you just don't have the juice, not after an eighteen-hour day, not after you've already expended your entire supply of discipline just… existing.