“We’re coming for you with pitchforks,” he wrote, “Just you wait.”
I told him he should come, but to leave the pitchfork behind.
“Welcome. Maybe bring a mechanical keyboard and a latte,” I responded. “Pull up a chair. You can share my cube. Look at these beige walls.”
They’re either beige or brown, nobody cares. “Just pull up your chair and set to hammering away on that keyboard. Nobody starts out an expert. We all start as beginners. Then we take one step at a time.”
They’re coming for me with pitchforks, I’m told. You can’t eat money, but you can eat the rich. Wait, what? Isn’t that cannibalism?
We have cokes in the fridge. We have red vines. Don’t eat too many or your head will get kind of buzzy. Remember to exercise every day, or most days, or at least sometimes. Or at least intend to exercise.
Wear an N95 mask when the sky turns red and the ash starts to settle on your car. Run an air purifier in your bedroom so you can sleep through through the night as the forests burn, as the ocean boil, as the industrial revolution shifts into the age of intelligent machines.
Try to sleep through the night as they march from the villages and farms with pitchforks in hand, rage in their hearts. These poor, confused people.
