I'm not angry. I'm not mad. I'm not pissed off.
I'm seething. Downright fucking seething.
Why this is the straw to break the camel's back, after almost two years of Tory profiteering — not to mention Johnson's track record of comments on “flag waving piccaninnies with watermelon smiles” which were, in his words, "taken out of context" (P.S. HOW?!) — is beyond me.
What I do know is that as we all fought our own sore circumstances, knowing that, by doing so, we were protecting those most vulnerable in our society, Johnson and his cabal were partying like there was no tomorrow.
As one Twitter user succinctly put it, resulting in me almost wetting myself of laughter: "Christ, this lot did more staggering around the garden than Captain Tom." We probably shouldn't joke about it, given the damage that this near-dictatorship is doing, but if you don't laugh, you'll cry. I will, of course, do both.
My friend died in the most horrific of circumstances, long before a vaccine was anywhere near fruition. As she lay dying, her lungs decimated by an invisible killer, she had nothing but a bleak ceiling and intermittent visitors from doctors, nurses and support staff for company.
While she slowly edged towards her demise — she was only just starting out in life, being in her late 20s — those of us who miss her dearly desperately prayed that it'd be swift and as peaceful as it could be. It sounds awful, perhaps, because it almost feels like wishing death on someone, but she never stood a chance.
That's the thing: she was clinically extremely vulnerable. No matter how many hateful comments I receive from social media, telling me how we shouldn't implement restrictions to protect what some consider to be a minority, it doesn't make her death any less of a tragedy.
If anything, to me, it makes it more of a tragedy. Unable to participate in many of the same activities as her peers before her death, my friend was already an outcast. In death, she is even more so; just an example of that pesky minority that we must learn to make such sacrifices as *checks notes* washing our hands for. I personally thought that everyone did that, but the last two years have taught me otherwise.
As I said back when the pandemic started, recapping on a charity event I participated in to raise money for the homeless: "Now, more than ever, I urge you to follow my lead and to do your bit for our most vulnerable—they need us." I sadly need to reiterate that more than ever.
I miss Angie every single day. She is one of the few reasons that I keep screaming and shouting.
I'm seething. Downright fucking seething.
Why this is the straw to break the camel's back, after almost two years of Tory profiteering — not to mention Johnson's track record of comments on “flag waving piccaninnies with watermelon smiles” which were, in his words, "taken out of context" (P.S. HOW?!) — is beyond me.
What I do know is that as we all fought our own sore circumstances, knowing that, by doing so, we were protecting those most vulnerable in our society, Johnson and his cabal were partying like there was no tomorrow.
As one Twitter user succinctly put it, resulting in me almost wetting myself of laughter: "Christ, this lot did more staggering around the garden than Captain Tom." We probably shouldn't joke about it, given the damage that this near-dictatorship is doing, but if you don't laugh, you'll cry. I will, of course, do both.
My friend died in the most horrific of circumstances, long before a vaccine was anywhere near fruition. As she lay dying, her lungs decimated by an invisible killer, she had nothing but a bleak ceiling and intermittent visitors from doctors, nurses and support staff for company.
While she slowly edged towards her demise — she was only just starting out in life, being in her late 20s — those of us who miss her dearly desperately prayed that it'd be swift and as peaceful as it could be. It sounds awful, perhaps, because it almost feels like wishing death on someone, but she never stood a chance.
That's the thing: she was clinically extremely vulnerable. No matter how many hateful comments I receive from social media, telling me how we shouldn't implement restrictions to protect what some consider to be a minority, it doesn't make her death any less of a tragedy.
If anything, to me, it makes it more of a tragedy. Unable to participate in many of the same activities as her peers before her death, my friend was already an outcast. In death, she is even more so; just an example of that pesky minority that we must learn to make such sacrifices as *checks notes* washing our hands for. I personally thought that everyone did that, but the last two years have taught me otherwise.
As I said back when the pandemic started, recapping on a charity event I participated in to raise money for the homeless: "Now, more than ever, I urge you to follow my lead and to do your bit for our most vulnerable—they need us." I sadly need to reiterate that more than ever.
I miss Angie every single day. She is one of the few reasons that I keep screaming and shouting.