Cannot afford to eat out, partly because of the cost in cash but mostly because of the cost in blood. At my little Vietnamese fast-food place in Arlington, the iced tea comes in a plastic cup with a straw and a plastic lid. Ditto the glass of water. An extra side of fish sauce comes in a small plastic tub with lid, and there are chopsticks wrapped in paper and inevitably the black styrofoam container to take the leftovers home, all of this plastic destined for waterways and atmospheres, swallowed by turtles or breathed in by swallows and human babies, a stain of where I was and where I ate as permanent and vexing as the oil that marks where you left your car. The garbage I generate, every day, with every meal, even for a snack, loaded up into a truck would be a monstrosity of expensive living, and I am just one motherfucker among millions, living unsustainably, our boots on the necks of the small brown people who eat rice and make our shoes and socks and soles without any safety net, brutalized until death so we can keep buying the colorful junk we crave, the feathers in our costumes that get us laid and paid. The criminal isn't our dirty president, nor the barons of manufacture and money lending. The enemy is in your mirror, a consumer, shitting plastic and shedding poison. We live like parasites, don't we? Producing what, exactly? Profit, that fucking toxin.