Let’s get something straight: I’ve been behind that counter. I’ve done the retail hustle, hopped from one store to another, kissed corporate ass to get flown out  to The Buckle in Tampa for some half-baked “opportunity,” where they dangle “swag” in front of you like it’s a perk instead of a leash. I’ve worn the “teammate of the season” badge—twice, in the hay day of FUBU, pearl snaps and Maddens mind you. I was so good at slanging jeans to moms  my buddy Josh scribbled “Milf King” on a homemade award just to get a laugh. And all that while I was a goddamn youth pastor. Talk about contradictions. I know what it’s like to feel the grind, to be measured in meaningless metrics, and to see every soul that sets foot through the door get tagged as a “consumer” the moment they cross the threshold. It’s a rigged narrative, spun up by some coked-up C-suite suits who want nothing but your wallet on their plate.

And here’s the nasty little secret nobody wants to say out loud: that “consumer” mindset is what lets these psychos put profits over people’s lives. It’s what lets some bloated healthcare CEO shrug off a few deaths because, hey, if the revenue stream’s still good, who gives a damn about the bodies stacking up out back? That’s the real face of the consumer model, folks: the idea that as long as we keep gobbling up their bullshit, they can keep raking in the cash, human cost be damned.

Well guess what—I’m not their consumer. I’m their fucking nightmare.