The kind they can’t crush
My fridge broke today.
A fridge full of food – ruined. Not just my food — my cat’s food. Five days’ worth of fresh meals I’d cooked for him, gone. Wasted.
The sauces. The purees. The ones I made by hand. Gone. I cook from scratch a lot — not just for myself, but for the people I love. Not just to feed them, but to give them something of myself. Something warm. Something human.
That fridge wasn’t just cold storage — it was the one part of this flat still built on care.
And it died.
And with it, something in me did too.
It wasn’t only the cost or needing to lean on people again. It was the reminder of how fucking done I am with this world.
And look at what’s happening right now: they’re committing a genocide — the worst crimes of our lifetimes — while our government profits and brands the people trying to stop it as terrorists.
We were raised to reject this — to reject white supremacist states, holocausts, genocides, ethnic cleansing; to reject apartheid if you’re younger than that; to reject wars built on lies if you’re younger still. And yet here we are — cheering it on, or too cowed to speak.
I can’t be the only one who feels this. There must be millions of us.
I’ve been carrying that fire for nearly a decade, and it’s cost me everything.
For Julian Assange.
For truth.
For Palestine.
For every silenced voice that deserved a witness.
And where has it got me?
No salary. No security. No awards. Just the knowledge that I’m right — and broke. While the liars get rich and the killers get airtime.
And yeah, I drink to cope. I said it. I have hollow legs, too. Some nights it’s the only thing that numbs the edge — not because I want to escape reality, but because I can’t switch it off. I’ve seen too much. Felt too much. There’s no off-ramp for people like us. No pension plan for the principled.
And it eats at you. The righteous fire turns into rot. And you think, what’s the point?
I’ll tell you.
Spite.
Not hope. Not peace. Not even truth, some days. Just pure, feral, principled spite for the bastards who run this world like it’s a casino for psychopaths.
I look at the state, the press, the corporations, the war criminals in suits — and something in me refuses to go quietly. Something in me still growls.
“Oh, you want to crush me?
I’m a diamond, motherfucker.
You haven’t got a press powerful enough.”
Do you feel this way?
Like you’re holding it all together with string and spit, and no one’s coming to help?
Like the more you try to do the right thing, the more this world punishes you for it?
That feeling — that burn in your chest — hold onto that.
Not the despair, but the clarity. That’s the part of you they haven’t broken. That’s the part that’ll carry you through the storm when everything else falls away.
That’s what’s going to get you through.
Teaching spite.
Passing it on like a torch.
Showing the next poor bastard ready to give up that they’re not broken — they’re right, they’re awake.
That their fury isn’t dysfunction — it’s proof they still feel in a world that’s gone numb.
This isn’t a sob story.
This is a battle cry.
My fridge is fucked. My wallet’s empty. My head’s full of fire and my stomach’s full of beer. But I’ve got one thing left, and it’s the most dangerous thing of all:
Spite.
And if you’re reading this with the same fire chewing at your insides?
Then don’t you dare quit either.
Not now. Not ever.
Because tomorrow morning, before I do anything else, I’ve still got to sort that broken fridge.
And after that? I’ll get back to breaking theirs.