The phone is ringing. It’s my boss. I answer and tell him that I was just going to call him. It’s the truth. I was actually in the middle of sending him a text message asking if he still wants me to work tomorrow. It’s the first thing that he asks me. Can I come in? It’s fine, honestly. I can do it. Just so long as he doesn’t come in also. If I’m able to write, and sing and dance, then it’s not all that bad. I can’t masturbate. That’s one thing. I guess that I could go into the bathroom, lock the door, put a back in five minutes sign up – but I’m probably not going to do that. It would be difficult without inspiration. I don’t want to drop my phone in the toilet.

My boss asks if I made any posts yesterday.

I tell him that I did.

That’s weird, he says, because I didn’t see any.

I start listing off the subjects of the articles that came out yesterday.

Oh, he says.

He hadn’t done much work on any of those articles.

Look, I say. I did what I could. My computer is slow. It’s not as fast as the computer here. You’re better than I am at all of this internet activism stuff. Most of my work takes place within a Google Document. Once I start navigating into advertisement laden websites, my computer crashes. The Chromebook knows what I need. I’m not meant to do your work. I’ve got my own fish to fry.

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