An Apartment For My Good Looks

Buckle up, kiddo, we’re hurtling down the meat grinder of societal breakdown.

This whole system, this flaccid, bloated carcass of capitalism, is twitching its last. It’s a roach motel of broken promises and alienation, sucking the marrow out of our creativity for the benefit of the roach overlords.

You want an apartment for your good looks? A socialist Shangri-La where beauty is currency? Forget the breadlines, honey, this utopia runs on pheromones. Imagine, chrome-plated skyscrapers shimmering under a smog-choked sky, each a temple dedicated to aesthetics. Your rent’s paid in runway struts and killer smiles. But beauty fades, stud. What happens when the wrinkles creep in and your smile starts to curdle? This paradise could turn into a Dantean nightmare faster than a botched botox job.

The market, on the other hand, this ravenous beast with a dollar-bill beak, it’s got its own brand of madness. It’s a chaotic carnival rigged in favor of the carnies. You gotta hustle, play the shell game of supply and demand, or you’re gonna end up another cog in the machine, another number on a spreadsheet. The air thrums with the electric hum of information overload, a million barcodes buzzing in your head.

So, the choice, my friend, is between a gilded cage and a rat race on a treadmill to nowhere. It’s a flesh-eating virus versus a slow-acting poison. Pick your poison, baby. Or, maybe, there’s a third way. Maybe we can hack the system, rewrite the code. Maybe beauty can be a weapon, not a commodity. Maybe the market can be a tool for liberation, not exploitation. Maybe we can build something new, something monstrous and beautiful at the same time, where both your looks and your brains can get you a goddamn roof over your head.

But that’s a whole other trip, a journey down the uncharted wormholes of revolution. You up for it?

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