When I was a kid, I used to watch my mother soak things in hot, sudsy water and then pick the price tags off with her fingernails. Sometimes, I wish I could soak my soul in that water, that I might cleanse myself of all reminders of the cost of things.

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A few weeks ago, I was sipping tea with my favorite Marxist–he bought me the tea cuz I’m hella broke–and I was telling him how I’d been offered a job that pays $50 an hour, but I was thinking about not taking it.

“Why not?” he asked. “You need that money.”

I had been jobless for over a year, and to survive, I’d been borrowing money from the people I love. My friends were running out of slack, though, and if I didn’t find a job soon, I’d…