Dear Diary,

The demand for the subject to be available 24 hours a day facilitates a lifestyle of labor.

Out of exhaustion, the OnDemand  institutionalized desires [packaged as handsome leisure activities] now unbound from the office, internalized in the mind of the subject and ingrained in the lifestyle of labor, threaten the house and urban space of community as places of retreat from the extension of capitalism traditionally quarantined in the office.

The end of the workweek’s greeting used to be, “TGIF” - now that, that has become a household restaurant chain, where you can consume an emotion, it has evolved into a contrived holiday observance:

“Happy Friday Deborah!”

shouts one secretary to another 400 miles away.

Resurrection from sleep, exhaustion, and depression occurs with shot of questionable chemicals for just Five More Hours  !

Hunger and lack of free time enslaves one to cheap, readily available food manufactured by the lowest bidder - vitamins, supplements, injections, and pills offset their poor quality to "keep your body in balance."

Gaps of time are spent escaping the house to Superstores and shopping "plazas" to buy stuff one does not need, and playing Russian Roulette with one’s last paycheck on warranties because a designer had full faith that their product was so poorly designed that it would fail within a year … but someone’s got to hit a deadline for the manufacturing plant in Hong Kong, it’s 5 p.m., Wal-Mart  is having a limited family-sized dinner special, the movers are coming in to drop off a new plasma screen, and James’ financial aid application needs to be turned in tomorrow morning.

If not spent consuming, one up-keeps the perpetrator of desire for consumption : the home.

Constructed of assemblies made for efficient production instead of effective post-production, it promises quick move-in, refinancing, leasing - it is an inhabitable resume and credit report. Who needs mental sobriety in dwelling when you can be drunk on the flexibility of moving credit ?

Windows of time are spent cleaning an over-sized house [I DARE you to leave this room empty] that stores over-consumed goods -- injected with Freudian Displaced desires as a consumptive stand-in for the defeated chase of living the dream -- as if metaphorical ownership of some object with ascribed meaning did the job of living.

Who’s owning who ?

Pruning the rose garden has been replaced with pruning the generic containers that put over-consumption out of sight and out of mind (garages, storage sheds, attics, basements, rooms, closets, drawers, landfills), but the guilt of internalized Hallmark  sentiments nourishes its roots and makes this a lost cause until a freak house fire washes the blood from your hands.

The market collapses.
Homes are foreclosed.
Tracts are abandoned.

Without the ability to consume and maintain goods, the lost souls of suburbia enter a state of lifestyle purgatory and public ego shaming when downsizing their homes.

They don’t invite guests, but for the sake of pride, become more in debt, cut taxes [they have bigger fish to fry on Wall Street] and save up money to go OUT, escaping from their homes. The size of space is inversely proportional to the vulnerability of the social ego – no one is coming over to witness this...