M's got a cast that’s tattered & stained around the dirty fingers of their right hand and a new clit piercing they flash for us when we walk in. They demand help making dinner or getting a glass of water in the same way they throw out all these offers—offhand and compulsively—to get us DMT, clients, blow, ketamine, contacts, contracts, more blow. Or, an all-expenses-paid trip to—(drumroll)—Indianapolis. Projects, posts, positions. Can you make me another baby line? Do you mind doing the dishes? Can you come with me to put my garter on? [yelling] Petunia--[the dog’s snores jump]--shut the fuck up!

N is ordering a crackpipe from Amazon to share with the rest of the class. Asks, in the same way you’d put a hand thru the holes of a chain link fence to pet a hungry dog, Are you worried about, like, being tokenized by the institutional art world. Are you worried about crit culture. N offers tentatively: I will actually go with you to Indiana.

M’s reply: I don’t give an actual fuck. M says, Ever since Wardell—M looks at me, realizes I exist, qualifies apologetically—Wardell, my boss who’s this black gay man who’s actually really stupid—

M says What picture should I use for my seeking arrangements profile
M says I am actually--really--interested in being tokenized
M says I am a pisces sun virgo rising scorpio moon
M says Sorry if I talked too much tonight
M says I have like four partners now lol
M says Can you get me a spoon