Am I a big phat loser for not writing a NYT bestselling novel in quarantine?! Why does it feel like I'm constantly being told, "you can sleep when you die!" From breakdowns in class, professing my love for Christmas, pursuing sports cars, and obsessing over Lamare, I am more than guilty of adding to the narrative of productivity culture: its positives, negatives, and oh-so toxicity (?). This is going to get ugly and very untwisty. 

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