I Won't Go Back To Posting Pictures of My Lunch

Oh, the nerve of the delicate little souls who stumble upon a political rant—a genuine, fire-breathing opinion—and immediately clutch their pearls and whine, "Why don't you talk about hobbies? Or food? Or, heaven forbid, the weather?" As if the crushing weight of systemic inequality, the constant erosion of rights, or the sheer, blinding incompetence of the governing class should be put on pause so we can discuss the optimal temperature for sourdough or the merits of knitting scarves!

​Listen up, you perpetually placated simpletons: the world is quite literally on fire, and you’re mad because the alarm bell is interrupting your brunch. You think my outrage should be channeled into a five-star review of a chicken sandwich? You want me to trade the urgency of fighting fascism for a detailed analysis of cirrus clouds? This isn't a gardening club newsletter; this is real life, and your demand for "niceness" and "non-controversial topics" is nothing but a privileged plea for silence.

​It is the hallmark of the truly comfortable—the intellectually lazy—to mistake political discourse for bad manners. They want the world to be a soothing, pastel-colored safe space where no one ever has to think beyond their next meal or their weekend plans. They look at a call for justice and see only "negativity." They look at a critique of the powerful and see only "divisiveness." What they really see is an interruption to their blissful, insulated ignorance, and their immediate response is to try and shove the inconvenient truth back into the closet and hand you a spatula or a tennis racket instead.

​Newsflash: My hobbies are fighting for a fairer world. My food is the frustration I'm forced to swallow every time I watch the elite crush the poor. And the political climate? It's stormy as hell, and unlike you, I'm not going to pretend it's a sunny day. Take your bland, beige topics and go discuss them with someone who hasn't noticed the apocalypse. The rest of us are busy screaming over the noise of your pathetic, privileged objections.