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Today's Document
occasionally subtle
Keni

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$LAYYYTER

shark vs the universe
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@g1rloftheweek
cutie
catholics be like “don’t be horny kids” and then bombard you with images of half naked men tied up to things
Thank you for your partecipation.
i am sincerely not interested in trying to replicate tiktok / pinterest goth outfits solely because of how much of it begins and ends with being a) skinny and b) white
we calling 988 tonight and asking the operator about their weekend plans
A lot of criticism of delivery apps focuses on the fact that they offer convenience and variety, which I find much less compelling than criticizing the fact that the apps often send their contractors on fetch quests from Hell.
There are real labor problems here. Base pay is often insulting. Customer tips carry too much of the burden. Workers need better protections, more transparent algorithms, protection from arbitrary deactivation, and actual recourse when the app or a customer screws them over. Car-dependent delivery is also an environmental and infrastructural problem, though in a denser city I’d still be doing this work; I’d just be doing it by bike.
But when people talk about delivery work, I rarely see them talk to actual delivery workers. I see a lot of abstract arguments about convenience, consumer decadence, “hustle culture,” and internalized neoliberalism. Meanwhile, when I’m out working and waiting in restaurants for orders, the other Dashers I meet are usually people who only speak Spanish, people who read as neurodivergent, visibly physically disabled people, or some combination of the above.
I have not met this mythical Disco Elysium poor ultraliberal hustlegrinder-wannabe people seem to be arguing with. Maybe that archetype exists somewhere. If it exists among any kind of gig worker, it would probably be rideshare drivers. But most of what I see looks less like “rise and grind” and more like “this is one of the few forms of work available to people who need flexibility, low barriers to entry, limited managerial surveillance, or a way to work around language barriers, disability, burnout, chronic illnesses and injuries with symptoms that come and go unpredictably, caregiving, résumé gaps, or discrimination.”
That does not make the current system good. It means the current system is filling a real gap that a lot of supposedly better systems do not even acknowledge.
As a disabled person who is burnout-prone and demand-sensitive, contracting as a delivery driver has given me an unprecedented level of financial flexibility. I can work when I have capacity. I can stop when I’m deteriorating. I can build my day around my actual body instead of being trapped under a manager who thinks “reliable” means “able to perform the same way every day no matter what.” That matters. It does not cancel out the exploitation, but it is also not fake just because it is politically inconvenient.
And delivery itself is not some inherently decadent evil. Sometimes people live alone. Sometimes they are sick. Sometimes they are disabled, exhausted, overwhelmed, grieving, overloaded, or recovering from something else - perhaps the stress and fatigue induced by their own job. Sometimes they need medicine, groceries, or a meal that will actually unplug their sinuses instead of whatever generic community-care slop someone thinks they should be grateful for. Humans are allowed to need specificity. “Food” is not the same as “the food I can actually eat right now.”
A serious labor critique would ask how to make delivery work safer, better-paid, less tip-dependent, less car-dependent, less algorithmically punitive, and less precarious. It would ask what kinds of flexible, accessible work should exist for people who cannot thrive in conventional employment. It would ask how cities could support bike delivery, worker cooperatives, public infrastructure, and real protections without simply replacing one bad system with a moral sermon about how nobody should ever want takeout.
But a lot of the discourse does not do that. It treats convenience itself as suspicious. It treats wanting flexible work as false consciousness. It treats the needs of disabled people, immigrants, and other people who can't fit into traditional employment structures as details to be swept aside in favor of a cleaner political image.
I guess the opinions of delivery workers only count when they are politically convenient.
dean offscreen was calling sam a f*ggot, smoking a pack a day, and hooking up with high schoolers. sam offscreen was committing suicide in various ways only for lucifer to bring him back each time
i imagine calling you, the first words out of my mouth damning us both to a meeting. you’d pick me up in your moms car like always, idle in my driveway while i apply one more layer of lip gloss. i would run out, breathless, in your car and in your face all at once. a grin stretching ear to ear, eyes taking you in in a way that’s so perverse it borders on molestation.
“hey dude, what up?” you’d ask breezily, breezy breezy breezy. as always
i would giggle. not just in this moment, but for the next hour or so. like a lobotomized schoolgirl. batshit.
i would talk and talk and talk about everything on my mind, jumping from one subject to another, abandoning ship as my anecdotes and thoughts sour, which is to say, immediately. i’m not a man, after all. certainly not one at your side.
you’d nod politely, maybe break out in surprised, light laughter occasionally, which should make me feel good, we’re having fun, right? but the surprised aspect of it cuts into me like a knife would nick an overzealous fingertip.
after a bit, i’d ask, “do you still have love for me?”
i would want it to sound breezy, light, fun, you. but it’s breathless, perverse, sour, me.
oh well. maybe next time.
what i’m trying to say is that i’m never going to be able to perform femininity in a way that will make people happy but those same people wouldn’t accept me as anything but because it would mean accepting me as an equal. also i’m not cut out for relationships but that could be unrelated
i imagine calling you, the first words out of my mouth damning us both to a meeting. you’d pick me up in your moms car like always, idle in my driveway while i apply one more layer of lip gloss. i would run out, breathless, in your car and in your face all at once. a grin stretching ear to ear, eyes taking you in in a way that’s so perverse it borders on molestation.
“hey dude, what up?” you’d ask breezily, breezy breezy breezy. as always
i would giggle. not just in this moment, but for the next hour or so. like a lobotomized schoolgirl. batshit.
i would talk and talk and talk about everything on my mind, jumping from one subject to another, abandoning ship as my anecdotes and thoughts sour, which is to say, immediately. i’m not a man, after all. certainly not one at your side.
you’d nod politely, maybe break out in surprised, light laughter occasionally, which should make me feel good, we’re having fun, right? but the surprised aspect of it cuts into me like a knife would nick an overzealous fingertip.
after a bit, i’d ask, “do you still have love for me?”
i would want it to sound breezy, light, fun, you. but it’s breathless, perverse, sour, me.
oh well. maybe next time.
kinda fun how my style evolution can make my ocs look like they’re growing up with me
left from dec ‘23
btw muña here came out to me as a trans woman today v happy for her
kinda fun how my style evolution can make my ocs look like they’re growing up with me
left from dec ‘23
recent stuff
elita will sometimes wake up in the middle of the night and not be able to go back to sleep so he rolls over and strangles 2d in their sleep about it
waiter waiter more depictions of traumatised malnourished characters putting on some weight postcanon to show their recovery from the horrors please !!!!!!!!!!!