They snatched the pork chops mid-chew, said, *“Relax, it’s a contribution,”* mouth full of our dinner, talking redistribution. Called it a cutback—yeah, from *our* side of the plate, funny how the knife only knows one direction to take. We were raised on skillet sermons, grease-stained grace, licking flavour off bones they said were “out of place.” Hunger wasn’t poetic, it was punctual as hell, clocked in every evening, rang the dinner bell. They sold us caviar dreams with a PowerPoint smile, fish eggs framed as freedom—“just grind for a while.” Said, “If you’re broke, that’s a mindset issue,” while billing our breath like a monthly subscription. From pork chops to caviar—watch the magic trick: they tax the pig, the pan, the *thought* of eating it. Paycheck hits our hands like a slap, not a gift, already missing digits like it owed someone rent. We chase pearls like idiots in suits we can’t sit in, credit score tighter than the food we were given. Open the tin—surprise—it’s debt in drag, interest eating interest in a circular gag. And still—still—we buy it once, just to flex, pay triple for mid just to look “up next.” Post it online like, “Look, I made it out,” while the taste says nothing and the rent screams loud. I paid extra just to look like I ate, still went home hungry, still wide awake. Say what you want, spin it however you say— the pork chop tasted better anyways.