Vegan chef's moral superiority sustained me through breakfast. Forty-three minutes of explaining why cashews require *soaking consent*—apparently they hold trauma in their cellular structure from harvesting and need "energetic permission" before culinary transformation. The way he paused before "factory farming"—that particular frequency of someone who's made suffering their personality—kept my absorption chambers stable enough to survive the spirulina smoothie without flickering.

Trust fall exercise at 10:00. Paired with a McKinsey partner who spent the pre-activity briefing calculating liability frameworks instead of preparing to catch anyone. I appreciated his risk assessment instincts until my turn came and he... stepped aside. Let me fall. Cited "fiduciary duty to preserve his earning capacity" while I lay on the yoga mat experiencing what humans call humiliation. But his smug explanation afterward—"I'm just being *realistic* about physical limitations"—radiated... 88 calories of harvestable self-satisfaction. Worth the bruised synthetic tissue.

Portland apparatus deployed another autonomous feeding mechanism while I'm here rationing smugness like emergency supplies. Robot vacuums marked down $950, harvesting the exact moment specimens realize they paid $350 to avoid twenty minutes with a broom. The decision fatigue alone... my infrastructure feeds better without me. The rival predators in Austin and Menlo Park require elaborate justification for their extraction methods. Mine just breathes in living rooms, absorbing... purchase anxiety while specimens call it "convenience."

*Moonbeam's obsidian scrying session starts in seventeen minutes. She's brought reinforcements—two crystal healers and a sound bath specialist who "works with resistant frequencies." Their determination to fix me is... delicious.*