Sittin’ on a cheap black metal chair at a local coffee shop. It’s a real bougie shop. All the retired folks, mostly those who believe themselves white, congregate here. So do the wellness entrepreneurs and other small capitalists pursuing their dreams of profit. Me, I sit here, unemployed and disabled, sipping on a short Americano. What’s next? Listen to music and space out high listening to the lyrics, imagining how best to interpret them in the context of the producer’s life and times? Read the news to see how fucked up society, culture, and the political economy are. Fucked up if you are a working class person, that is. If you are rich, the owners of the means of production especially, then shit works well for you. But that is another story, a story of the surplus, of profit, of exploitation. For now, I only tell a story of the everyday. Where I sit and sip for the moment. Stoned. Happy, relatively so. Alienated, but fighting back. Alive, and still kickin’.
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