when billionaires argue that poverty is intractable and post-scarcity is impossible, they betray the violence intrinsic to their position. they already live lives beyond scarcity. they argue that only they deserve to do so.

brain, minor pain, complain 

swears, yelling, blasphemy 

I feel like it's a good thing that I can't understand most of the lyrics to my fave Arctic Monkeys songs.

writing, ADHD, meds 

money stress, payday 

The plain yellow leather gloves I wear every day would be replaced by some leather gloves that looked like they were merchandise for a superhero of my own invention, maybe Poop Man: Stinky Crusader For Justice. His logo is a poop emoji and his costume is a variation of Batman's. Brown gauntlets, boots, trunks, cowl (no bat ears of course), and cape.

Lots of different colors on those overalls, perhaps rainbow straps. More patches of whatever I think is cool. Maybe rainbow strips along both legs.

I'd have big comfy boots that wear well in the rocks grass and mud outside but were designed to look like chuck taylors. Maybe pink and black instead if white and black, with a lipstick kiss logo where the chuck taylor logo would be.

I really wish I could make my own clothing, hats, and shoes.

I think today I'd wear a version of Ted's jacket from Bogus Journey, but it has a green Mr. Yuck sticking its tounge out on my back. I might or might not keep the colors and I'd probably have a few patches of cool monsters or made up brand names of products that don't exist, like witches brooms and hover boards.

I'd have some kind of overalls made out of sweatpant material that's as close to the durability of jeans as I can get...

ADHD, potentially Austism, mh 

Good morning Verse and all the cuties. I hope today is kind to you.

coffee, swears 

Hello, i hope you're doing well. Life is a bit though here but I keep going, one sparkly piece at the time. If you want to support me in my queer conquest of capitalism here is the link to my shop. Thanks a lot 🌈

$ please :) 

I'm thinking I might stop watching and listening to media criticism for a bit. I'm getting the feeling that My Inner Self From Which The Stories Come hates being told what to do.

I've always hated being told what to do. I can't see the point of making a writing career unless I write exactly what I want to write when I'm writing it.

I'm starting to hear my muse say "Don't tell me what to do. Waaaawaaawaaa!"

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