I’m Not Lazy, I’m on Strike from Capitalism: A Cozy Protest

There was a time I believed in hustle.

I woke up at 6 a.m. with motivational quotes taped to my bathroom mirror. My vision board was plastered with yachts, passive income charts, and one terrifying picture of Elon Musk smirking like he just bought my soul at a clearance sale.

And then… I snapped.

Right in the middle of a productivity webinar, as the speaker chirped, “If you’re not working on your dreams, you’re working for someone else’s!”—I realized I was, in fact, working for my cat’s dreams. Because she’s the only one thriving in this economy, sprawled out across my laptop like the furry CEO she is.

So, I quit.

Not my job—because lol, rent—but I quit trying. I quit optimizing. I quit acting like my worth was measured in billable hours and how many tabs I had open. (Answer: always too many, including one I definitely forgot and now plays mystery music.)

Welcome to my Cozy Protest.

The Revolution Will Be Pajama-Clad

From the outside, it may look like I’m just lying on the couch eating cereal straight from the box, watching reruns of Great British Bake Off while muttering “Paul Hollywood is a capitalist enabler.”

But no. This is tactical.

This is strategic.

This is resistance.

I have constructed a duvet fort—a sacred sanctuary of fluff and defiance. Here, I reject your 5 AM club, your 12-step morning routines, your side-hustle-as-personality branding.

Here, I honor naps like sacred rituals and wear the same sweatshirt three days in a row because fashion is a construct, Janet.

I Am Not Lazy. I Am Rewilding My Nervous System.

Let me clarify: I am not doing “nothing.” I am doing deep healing rest. I am rebalancing my cortisol. I am detoxing from Grind Culture. I am reconnecting with my ancestral right to loaf around without shame.

My grandmother didn’t escape war and survive famine so I could die from burnout while building a dropshipping empire selling customizable dog socks.

No, ma’am.

I will eat a croissant at 2 PM, in bed, while watching conspiracy videos about birds not being real. I will light a candle, write three poetic sentences in a notebook, and call that “work.”

And when someone asks what I’ve accomplished today, I’ll say:

“I resisted the urge to monetize my hobbies. I fought back against the algorithm. I stared into the abyss of LinkedIn and said, No thanks, hustle demon.”

Strike Demands

Like any good labor revolt, I have a list of demands:

• A four-day weekend.
• Universal nap breaks.
• The right to fail without starting a motivational podcast about it.
• A minimum of one (1) cozy beverage per hour.
• The abolition of "girlboss" as both a noun and verb.

Final Notes from the Resistance

Some will say I’m giving up. That I’ve lost ambition.

To them, I say: Have you ever truly rested? Like, soul-deep rest where you forget what day it is and your skin starts glowing like you’ve bathed in rebellion?

Try it. The system can’t own you if you’re horizontal and unreachable.

My protest may be cozy, but make no mistake—it’s powerful. Because every moment I choose stillness over burnout, I am flipping off the machine. Every time I don’t turn my hobby into a monetizable niche, I am reclaiming joy.

And every time I say, “I’m not lazy, I’m just done tap dancing for crumbs,” I remind the world that worth is not earned—it’s inherited by birthright, ideally with a side of cookies.

So, fellow burnout survivors, overachievers in recovery, and nap-loving anarchists: join me.

Bring snacks. Bring tea. Bring your coziest blanket and your most rebellious dreams.

Let’s burn out hustle culture—slowly, from the safety of our forts.

🔥✊🛌