The lady doth protest too much

Warning: I’m really tired, I have a million things to do including packing a suitcase for a weekend escape (yay me), and this editorial has been a pain in the butt to write. So prepare yourself for some really wishy washy stuff, cause I’m on course to work 54 hours this week and at this point I just want to curl up into a little hairy ball and die, only to be swept away tomorrow by the cleaners. (That sentence was too long but fuck it)

The plan was to write some inspirational stuff about protesting, about how action is the only answer. I was going to rant about the plague of complacency and apathy that seems to characterise our world today. I was going to encourage you to think, to talk, to discuss, to complain, to verbally battle shit out (emphasis on verbally). I was going to make a point that you need to fight for change, that you can’t just wait for it to happen ‘cause one day you’ll wake up and realise that the world has indeed changed but has left you behind and has probably banned something stupid like nipple clamps along the way too.

But so much shit keeps going down. They came for our education (It’s not even particularly good, even VP Education admits to it), they came for our drugs (poppers only narrowly escaped), and now they’re coming for our porn? I mean come on! So yes, I’m tired and I just can’t look you in the eye and lie to you. I can’t even be bothered to type-lie to you.

So here’s the truth. Protesting is hard. It’s not a one-off. It’s a way of life. To protest means to live life unapologetically. To refuse to be bossed around. To think freely. To be a protester means spending your entire life, your entire existence pushing, for yourself and for others.

This life will eat you up and spit you out. You will be drained and you will feel dead inside. But it’s ok. There’s nothing like a short break away from the daily grind to pump you up again and make you ready to start pushing again.