Future Feeling: A Novel

I called an apartment meeting. This was highly unusual, and the roomies must have thought we were getting evicted.
We sat in our tiny living room, a few feet between the entrance to the Witch's room, my room, and the start of the kitchen. The S-H [Stoner-Hacker] was cross-legged on the floor, and the Witch and I sat too close together on the two sectional pieces that had once belonged to a longer, nicer couch.
"I need to curse someone, in both the old ways and the new."
The Witch gave me the same look she'd given when I suggested a chore wheel. "This is not child's play," she said.

We reached Mulberry Street and passed consumers who did not have the privilege of mind-cleaning, who only wanted to find the perfect acid-wash jeans to go with their despair. I saw our reflection in a storefront and wondered how anyone could ever want to hate-crime us.
We were looking so hot and unified!
Inside the over-lit store, techno throbbed and Blithe and I fished complimentary ear plugs out of a mesh basket. The overstimulation didn't seem to bother Aiden, who wandered off without us. The edgy retailer sold three items, all unisex: enormous t-shirts, long shorts, and a pair of sweatpants with legs four times the size of a usual leg, designed for a monster. The colours rotated every three weeks. This week's: Fragile Violet, Renaissance Gold, and Horchata.
"I miss those shiny Adidas track pants," I told Blithe.
"I'm nostalgic for every single part of my life that didn't feel like a pit of despair," he responded, and walked away.
I started spiralling, thinking about how feminist cis-dudes out there would be scoring major points for wearing genderless ift sweatpants in their dating profiles while all of us trans who wanted actual fitting M or F clothing were told: Just wait a little longer for the next stage of capitalism to bring strange new forms to the marketplace.