In the M-class level you give me a dollar for just the pleasure of helping me survive on this planet. 💚

THERE ARE FIVE DOLLARS

You always WANTED to go on an away mission with all senior officers, right? Slip me a five and you might even survive. 

Depending on your plumbing, these might also be Poon Farts. Or peen farts. Those sound painful. Good thing they’re only once every seven….wait, was it years? Minutes? Months? Dollars. 

Class is now in session. Constitution class, lesson one: The Prime Directive and how not to get in trouble when you break it. Tuition is seven. (Dollars, bars of gold-pressed latinum, boxes of self-sewing stem bolts, it’s all good.)

Infinite duplicity in incessant cacophony. Individual duality in intimate combining. Institutional dealings in ironic committees?

Are you a Jellico? One of the ones Kirk clashed with? Kirk, but only between TMP and the end of the one with the whales?

You’ve presumably mastered all emotion, but *I* definitely have not, so you have to deal with my gratitude. What do you want? (I know, I know, ‘nothing’.) 

Do you like my art?