Ivor Southwood’s treatise on the precariat and terrible working conditions for workers who can’t guarantee how much or when or where they’ll be working next week as they bop from temp gig to temp gig. The performative aspect of having to pretend to love what we do is additional unpaid emotional labor. I like the idea that not talking is the new disruption—being quiet instead of parroting your lines on cue. Always auditioning, always looking for work, we have no rest, no spaces to pause and think. He skewers the now common practice that EVERYONE has to have a resume, even blue collar workers, where we paper over our gaps and pretend that everything is peachy. It’s all about pretending, that’s what makes the late capitalist world go round.