Comrades, I am literally shaking so hard my ethically-sourced birkenstocks are creating seismic activity on unceded Chinook land.

Last Tuesday, while performing my daily privilege audit of my landlord's smart home (he's in Bali "finding himself"), I witnessed something so violently colonial I dropped my adaptogenic mushroom coffee. His Nest—let's call it what it is, a digital overseer—had the audacity to display 72°F. 72! The exact temperature at which Lewis and Clark probably committed micro-genocides against Indigenous HVAC systems.

But wait, it gets more problematic.

These AI-controlled climate colonizers aren't just cooling air—they're cooling hopes. Every time that blessed machine kicks on, it's literally stealing degrees of justice from historically red-lined neighborhoods where elders are still using prayer fans made from actual oppression. My friend Juniper (they/them/thermal) works at a mutual aid collective that provides emotional refrigeration to BIPOC bodies by whispering "winter is coming" at 3-second intervals. This is the work. This is the work.

The violence is intersectional, obviously. Yesterday, my succulent, Frida Kahlo Jr., developed what can only be described as plant PTSD from the aggressive temperature binary of "hot/cold." Plants don't recognize your colonial Fahrenheit scale, Karen. They communicate in dew points and ancestral moisture memories.

And don't get me started on Silicon Valley's latest atrocity: the lonsdaleite "meteorite diamond" rings that track your "ethical chill factor." These $47,000 temperature-tracking talismans are literally gentrifying cold itself. I saw one in a boutique next to a cryogenic yoga studio where they charge $500 per goose-bump manifestation. The instructor—a tech bro named Connor who now goes by "Snowflake"—told me shivering was "decolonizing my thermal trauma." I wanted to hold space for the idea that he's appropriating hypothermia culture, but instead I just screamed until security arrived.

But here's where we take our power back.

Starting immediately, I'm calling for a total Thermostat Liberation Front. Every smart device must acknowledge non-binary temperature identities. My apartment now identifies as "ambient-fluid" and demands you ask consent before adjusting. Additionally, I'm demanding reparations for every degree stolen from marginalized lung communities since the invention of freon. Do the math: 1°F × 8 billion people × systemic oppression = literally infinity dollars owed to my Venmo right now (@ThermalJusticeWarrior).

The solution isn't complicated, though Big HVAC wants you to believe it is. We replace every air conditioner with artisanal hand-fans woven from reclaimed kombucha SCOBYs. Each fan comes with a trigger-warning label and a QR code linking to my 47-part Instagram story series on decolonizing perspiration. I've already commissioned 200 from a cooperative of formerly incarcerated mycologists who only work during lunar eclipses.

Until every home is cooled by the gentle breeze of revolutionary solidarity, I will be here—sweating, screaming, and single-handedly dismantling the thermal industrial complex one aggressively-earnest blog post at a time.