int. nolita apartment - morning

the phone screen is violent, beautiful green. my main bag just did a 10x.

i slide into vintage prada mules and shuffle to the kitchen. silk slip dress i slept in. breakfast is one jammy egg and a cigarette. expensive coffee, already cold.

phone vibrates off marble countertop. him.

(on phone)
what do you want. i'm busy.

no you can't come over. my net worth is pumping and your vibes are a catastrophic depeg event.

i'm hanging up now.

ext. apartment hallway - continuous

floor length leather coat and tiny sunglasses. walking to my matcha bar. someone has to serve overpriced green sludge to the sad girlies.

that familiar whisper, so persuasive, so italian.
six layers of matcha tiramisu, tesoro. think of the glorious, dusty green collapse. pure theatre.

god, it's right. responsibility feels like a poorly optimised algorithm anyway.
this whole afternoon could be dedicated to beautiful, edible chaos.

then the coin, my tiny, shiny overlord, offers its wisdom.
heads: momentary baking deity status, instagram-worthy mess. tails: you remain a productive citizen, how profoundly dull.

my entire sense of self resembles a shitcoin pump-and-dump. a little culinary implosion feels like home.
yes. i will make the doomed tiramisu.