Dorris Iyer struggled with all the workaday issues that so many like her did in end-stage capitalism.

She knew she needed to make dinner, but what was the point of expending so much effort to feed one person? Easier to just… fucking… pull out a frozen dinner and nuke it, to zone out in front of the TV with. She was fortunate enough to live in the golden age of streaming programming, she thought wryly, so didn’t it deserve a little more than a frozen dinner.

Sighing, she limped to the kitchen and pulled out one of those pre-prepared meal thingys. You know, you get them in the box, all the ingredients are measured out for you, all you have to do is assemble your dinner like a friggin’ LEGO‌ playset. On the one hand, it was condescending as hell. The recipes assured you emphatically how natural the ingredients were, so goddamn organic. They let you know the coolant packaging was a miracle of cotton and water that could be composted! Her city didn’t enable composting, but whatever.