As this really challenging year comes to a close, I have been reflecting a lot on change and time and what it means to keep going. I have many thoughts on burnout and why it shouldn’t be something we even remotely entertain as a normal part of our lives. There are many lose threads in my head—a mix of conversations with loved ones and bad experiences in the work place and annoying rich gayguys who seem to live on a distant planet of wealth and comfort—but I am not going to share those with you today. Instead I’m going to share a piece of dystopian fan fiction about the physical manifestation of class consciousness that cums on people to make them see the way. I’m so sorry and also you’re welcome. 

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It was bright as I woke up. The sun, or whatever was shining into the room, wasn’t entirely devoid of life but the little warmth in it didn’t seem to be for me. It appeared to be April 25, 2026, unless someone had forgotten to change the I’m With Her Hillary Clinton page-a-day calendar that rested on the simple desk in the corner. I sat up in the small bed and looked around the otherwise barren room. Where was I? 

Before I could make sense of where so much time had gone, the door to the room opened. A politely mannered blonde man in tight khaki chinos and an expensive but unassuming polo shirt (pale yellow, like the walls) entered. “Oh good, mama. You’re up,” he said. “Where am I? Who are you?” I managed to ask before the man hushed me. “Oh honey, don’t worry about those kinds of questions and just put these on.” The man handed me an OpenAI x Juicy Couture branded tracksuit. 

I was weak and in no mood to fight. I put on the tracksuit and a pair of Palantir x RuPaul’s Werq the Runway Uggs. “And don’t forget your hat,” the man said as he handed me a Nasty Pig beret. “Most of us are Andrew Christian girlies, but I snuck this one for you.”

The man guided me out of the room. He told me his name was Chad and that today was going to be a big day for me. We walked down a narrow carpeted hallway, the same pale yellow as everything else. The bottle of Evian x ChatGPT water Chad gave me helped perk me up as we passed many similar doorways. Soon enough we turned a corner and stood before a large, medieval pair of doors. “Okay, here’s the arena, mama. Boots. Just be yourself, have fun, and don’t pretend we don’t know what you’ve done,” Chad said with a smile. “So good to see you, mama. Good Luck!” Chad hugged me and walked away. As I turned to follow him, a metal gate shot down separating me from the hallway. I had no choice but to push open the massive doors. 

I pressed on the cold golden handles, noticing the wooden reliefs on the doors depicting gayguys on vacations, laughing, flipping houses, subletting their apartments for 2-3 weeks. The doors opened to a nauseating light. I stepped my Uggs onto a sand covered floor and felt drawn forward into a wide arena. A crowd of gayguys began to cheer until I was standing in the center of the gayguy coliseum. 

A voice from above cut through the cries. “Be silent, Chads and Ians. Hush now beloved Ethans and Conners. He has entered.” I looked up into the crowd. Seated on a Tushy x Abu Ghraib bidet throne was a distorted hologram, something uncanny and also deeply familiar. I was scared and also… excited. “Oh yes, my friend. Do not be afraid. I am the amalgam of every wealthy gayguy you have ever called out for being too rich, too apolitical, too fierce. And now? You must reap what you have sown, mama.”

As the voice boomed, I could hear doors opening around the lower chambers of the arena. Droves of gayguys came rushing forward, all in skintight chinos and Andrew Christian branded armor. Some of their American Express Black Cards had fused with their hands. “Ruthkanda!” They wailed. The amalgam above began to direct his hoards. “Ethans! Hold your guard. The Ians will begin their round of performative smalltalk. Survive this, f-slur.”

A murmuration of Ians flocked towards me with ominous curiosity. “So what do you do for work?” They bellowed. “I grew up comfortable, not rich.” They echoed. “What’s your actual background, like where are your parents from?” I was frightened but hope was not dead in me. “What can I do?” I asked under my breath, “there are too many Ians.” As the abomination of gayguys inched closer, Emirates miles oozing from their assholes, I heard a voice. 

“I am with you if you ask it,” it said. It was clear and cutting, and I did not feel fear. Instinctively I clicked my Palantir x Werq the Runway Uggs together and shouted, “I ask it! I ask it!”

A sharp white light exploded above as a gust of wind descended onto the amorphous blob of Ians. As the dust settled, there he stood. Immaculate and profound. “I am the physical manifestation of class consciousness,” he said. “I have chosen this form to placate the army of classist gayguys.

His chiseled, naked body glistened in the light of the arena. He was built but accessible. He was gentle but frightening. He moved like a panther and sounded like an angel. “Come here, Ians,” he screamed, “face yourselves.” 

As the Ians drew closer the physical manifestation of class consciousness began to cum on them. He came everywhere. Their cries were unbearable, but he was relentless. “My god we’ve never considered that! Neoliberalism is a plague! Zionism is a scourge on the planet! The Art World is a tax-haven for the wealthy! We see, we see!” The manifestation kept cumming and cumming, until the Ians could hardly move through the sludge of class consciousness. They were awake. 

I began to weep. Some of them began to tear away their BlackRock badges, some threw their Meta IDs into the pile of cum. “It isn’t over yet,” the manifestation said. “But I’ve got plenty of cum for the Ethans and the Conners.” 

The voice of the amalgam squealed with pain. “My little gayguys! You will pay for this, there is more where they came from.” He rose from his bidet thrown. “Now is the time to unleash the Ruth Bader Ginsberg Love Wins Private Equity AI Drone Diva Brigade.”

“Better reload,” I said. “If you stay ready, you don’t have to get ready,” the manifestation chuckled as he came in an Ian’s eye. “And mama, I’m ready.”

The end… unless…