I picture a timecard stamped “minimum wage compression survivor.” Around it, messy apartment doodles, empty coffee cups, and late‑night laptop glow. It’s my way of saying, yeah, I’m still here, still clocking in, still underpaid, but not invisible.

I want a fake concert tee called “Minimum Wage Compression Tour.” Back print lists “venues” like Night Shift Diner and Third Job Studio. Front shows me crowd‑surfing on pay stubs, because apparently my side hustles headline now.

I’d design a corporate ladder literally bending from minimum wage compression. Rungs at the bottom are thick and crowded, thinning upward. Tiny workers cling on, with speech bubbles like, “Promotion or just higher rent?”

I imagine a Monopoly‑style board titled “Minimum Wage Compression Edition.” Start square says “New Law Passed,” end square says “Still Broke.” Chance cards read, “Congrats, raise eaten by groceries,” and “Boss calls it opportunity.”