middle class stalemate

What place do my sequined leggings have in the revolution?

Will I roll in on my bicycle with sparkling gun screaming "don't I look sexy?!"

I think about the food in my overfed belly, the money in my pocket, look in the mirror at my beautiful pale face and ask "how much do you REALLY hate capitalism? It's working for you"

It is insidious that this system works for some people. I can complain all I want about how it is fucking me but in the end, my life is sugar and roses baby.

But the roses prick my fair skin and the sugar gives me diabetes. I watch people get stomped on, get sick, get exploited, get heartbroken, get chewed up, spit out,

DIE,

on my computer that I bought with my middle class money in my easy chair made by a third world child in my heated home in my middle class neighborhood.

WHY

am I here?

There is a fine line between white/class guilt and consciousness. So fine that it blends into my skin sometimes and I lose it in my mess of freckles and scars and sometimes it gets caught in the seems of my thrift store jeans. And I realize that asking

what did I do to deserve this?

is actually a narcissistic question. I don't deserve shit. That's the nature of privilege.

I'm tired. More on this tomorrow.