Quarantine

What up? Still here. Hope you guys are too. It’s fucking bitter Stone hard to deal with this right now. That’s true. And how the fuck am I supposed to care about writing a paper about fucking Shakespeare? *some snotty academic person’s voice* “Well, when Shakespeare was in quarantine for the black plague he wrote King Lear, so you should stop complaining and get stuff done.” Okay bitch, first of all? King Lear fucking sucks. Have you read that shit? It’s about a stupid old dude who doesn’t understand the subtleties of language, so he disowns his daughter and fucks up his whole kingdom. It’s boring. It feels like something someone who was really fucking bored wrote, because they wanted to spread their boredom around like rats spread the black plague. Second of all, who the fuck are you to presume to tell anyone else how to deal with a traumatic and unprecedented situation? No one. That’s who.

And at the same time I feel sort of weirdly connected to all of humanity in a way I never have before. The closest thing I can compare it to is how I feel about the Olympics. The whole world is looking toward this one thing, at the same time, together. We are all seeing ourselves and each other and we’re all just bopping around trying our fucking best, even though most people’s best is an idiot. It’s like that except not at all like that. It’s scary. It opens a pit in my stomach. It opens up pits in our stomachs. We’re all alone in our little houses, but we’re all here together. I watch my family’s little faces on my little screen. I force myself to feel grounded. I weave and try to do everything I can. I make a scarf, I work on my stupid paint with diamonds. I try to make an old story actually good. I record myself telling stories. I build forts and pet my dog and pet my significant other. I stress the fuck out over grocery lists, and trying and trying and trying to make sure everything gets on there. To make sure everyone gets what they need and they don’t need to go out. Don’t go out. Please don’t go out.