Title: My commune banned money but now I’m $14,000 in debt and can’t find my shoes

I’m writing this while squatting in a biodynamic mud dome that technically belongs to “The People,” but realistically belongs to Malachi, who screams about capitalism while owning four iPhones and a Shopify store that sells hand-sewn Maoist prayer flags.

I joined the commune six months ago after realizing that working was a tool of my own oppression. I had just read The Conquest of Bread and was told by my now-ex that “profit is violence.” I agreed. I deleted my Venmo, threw my debit card in the river, and Venmo’d Malachi for gas money one last time.

We were going to “abolish hierarchies.” But it turns out we just replaced them with vibes and vibes are…not good leaders.

My job in the commune was “emotional logistics.” I didn’t know what that meant either, but when I asked, I was accused of capitalist extraction. I now spend three hours a day journaling about internalized landlord energy and once got put on dish duty for calling an avocado “mine.”

Food is shared. Theoretically. But Tarquin is the only one with a car and he controls the grocery runs. The rest of us barter for hummus with labor vouchers, which are tracked on a chalkboard that only he’s allowed to update. I’ve worked 97 hours and been paid in exactly two spoonfuls of cashew cheese and an “abolish work” sticker.

The “collective” voted to dig a compost trench through the main sleeping area, because “walls are private property.” I now sleep next to the ghost of a rutabaga and a guy named Spoon who only speaks in TikTok audio clips and once tried to unionize the ants.

I got a rash last week. They told me it was a reaction to owning things.

I tried to leave, but the bus station was considered a “bourgeois construct of vertical mobility,” and anyway, the commune car was “in use for praxis.” By “praxis” I mean Malachi took it to an anarchist folk festival two counties over to sell $38 “Land Back” shirts made by his cousin who lives in Scottsdale.

I miss hot water. I miss structure. I miss not being blamed for imperialism every time I ask what the plan is.

If anyone has a one-bedroom apartment with a door, currency, or basic cause-and-effect, please contact me. I promise I’ve learned my lesson. And I’d really like my shoes back.