#definitely not procrastonating homework by writing this

[josies-not-suicidal-now]

There was a restlessness in her. She scrolled like any other day, but something in her was disatisfied, it gnawed at her. The feeling that she might never gain any improvement on this life, that she would scroll herself to her grave. She saw this wonderful comic about transfeminine love and how a trans girl loving a trans girl actually involves four people since the boys they once were are involved as well. Rereading it gave her a sense of nostalgia, of the younger trans girl she once was, and the trans girl she had hoped to become. The feeling pulled at the restlessness dissolved it slowly like a pill in water, but the restlessness persisted. How many times was she bound to reread this comic? Would she ever experience the emotional resolution of its final panel?

Underneath the panel the comic's creator was offering merch for it, oh fuck yeah Josie thought. She clicked on the link and looked at the website, there was a certain horror to it, that there were services with the explicit purpose of creating merch for random tiny creators like this. She wanted a hoodie, it had trans girls kissing on it, so she must have it, the restlessness demanded it. It cost 50€, no doubt the vast majority of which would be spent on lining the pockets of the owners of the website. She mentally reviewed her finances and knew she wouldn't be able to afford weed if she bough it. She sent the link to her newest "sugardaddy", and wrote "please daddy? :3". He was some divorced english dude who had moved to berlin a couple months earlier, when she had fucked him he had really wanted her to talk about how nice his dick was. It had kinda put her on the spot, really hadn't been very comfortable.

She thought about the workers who were going to get the other percentages of the 50€. Their working conditions were entirely unknown to her, their salaries, their rights, their relationships with their bosses, their governments. She didn't even know where they were. She imagined a sweaty Filipino man stood in a textile printing factory without air conditioning that smelled of paints and dyes, among other chemical industrial fumes. She imagined the workers on the cargo ship transporting her hoodie to her. She wondered if any of them would take the time to look at her hoodie and what any of them would think upon seeing it. Perhaps it was less cruel to foist the image of two cute girls kissing next to the shadow selves of the boys they once were, than it was to force them to transport ahegao shirts.

Her "sugardaddy" was responding. "Sure thing, darling ;)" He said, "When am I gonna get to see you again?" He asked, like as if he had to be polite. She wasn't interested in fucking him again, but that usually wasn't a problem. These men liked being depended on almost as much as the sex, and she didn't mind losing him, so long as she got her hoodie right now. Perhaps he needed a little encouragement.

She took off her hoodie which read "M.A.D. Magicians Against Data" and threw it at the corner of the room. She held a peace sign against her cheek and took a selfie with her tits out. She sent it to him with the caption "soon hopefully hehe XD"

When she never fucked him he probably would be too depressed about being duped to do anything about it, maybe he would come to her apartment and make a big stink at the front door, and bang on it, and shout and yell and annoy her roommate. That wouldn't be so bad. Maybe he would persist for so long that she would have to confront him, and he would beat her up, or rape her, or hurt her some other way. That would suck, but at least it would be gender affirming.

He was typing again. "You really can't wait to get this big dick in you again huh?"

Josie checked her bank account, he had sent the money, there was no reason to worry about writing a response.

Typing in her details to order this new hoodie she could feel the restlessness resolving itself. The future would be different than the present because today she didn't have a hoodie with trans girls kissing on it, and tomorrow she would. She could feel the gaze of Marx and Foucault disapproving at her from the heavens, for being so satiated by mere consumption. She could imagine Foucaults furrowed frustrated brow just below his gleaming bald head. She knew nothing about his ideas or if he would actually have cared about her relationship with commodities, but she knew he appeared in video essays often, so he was likely to agree with Marx.