Title: My polycule canceled me for eating eggs and now I live in the crawlspace

I don’t even know how to process this. I’m writing this from the crawlspace under our eco-conscious geodesic dome where I’ve been quarantined since the incident. It’s damp, but it’s also where I do my best shadow work.

I was excommunicated from the household for eating eggs. Not factory eggs. Not even store-bought eggs. Backyard, free-range, chicken-named-Celeste eggs. But “it’s not about the source, it’s about the symbolism,” I was told.

It all started last week at our communal intention-setting brunch. I mentioned I was tired, and Marzipan (xe/xir), who hasn’t slept since the Kavanaugh hearings, accused me of centering my comfort in a time of planetary grief. I offered her a seat. She said offering her a seat was patriarchal. I stood. She said standing was aggressive. I sat on the floor. “Performative humility,” she spat.

After the brunch, I was informed via group Slack (we no longer speak aloud — tone is violence) that I had violated our emotional labor code. My privileges were revoked: no kombucha access, no porch gardening, and banned from contributing to the zine.

I asked to appeal. They said appealing was a form of gaslighting.

Then came the eggs. I made shakshuka in the cast iron skillet I seasoned during my reparations fast. Before I could plate it, Jasper stormed in, eyes wild, screaming, “IS THAT OVAL PRIVILEGE?”

I haven’t slept indoors since.

They replaced me with a sex-positive knife juggler named Bastion who believes plants scream when harvested. He’s currently trying to get our fig tree emancipated. The others applaud his bravery.

Sometimes I watch from the crawlspace vent as they dance around the kitchen, joyfully redistributing snack privilege and workshopping their TEDx talk about decolonizing elbows. I cry, but silently. Noise is a form of auditory colonization.

If anyone has room in a post-capitalist bunker that still allows light protein and occasional eye contact, please respond by blinking in Morse code during the next lunar eclipse.

My lentils are gone. My spirit is tired.
But I still believe.
I just don’t know in what anymore.