So here I am, at home, unemployed. I thought I would spend this time cultivating a garden. I thought I would spend this time reading Proust, starting DIY projects in my back yard, and fixing that weird leak in my bathroom that haunts me when I get up to pee in the middle of the night. But instead, I’ve been spending my time drinking Summit Saga (you can sponsor me if you like) and watching Hannibal on Netflix deep into the night and having nightmares that my dad is a serial killer. I’ve been spending my time lolling on my bed while my cat licks my feet, wondering if I’ll ever have another job and crying to my Google Home, who I’ve named Alexander.
I have thirty-nine unread emails in my inbox.
I have three empty beer cans on my desk.
I think this is all okay right now.
Today I drove to Fridley, Minnesota to get tested for covid-19. They stuck a swab into my nose and into what seemed like my brain. I stood next to a woman in a hard plastic box with little gloves sticking out of it. I felt radioactive. I yelled OH GOD when the swab went in. It was like a pipe cleaner. The swab went into a test tube. I was done.
The whole way home I listened to Huey Lewis and the News, hoping it would cheer me up, but all I could think of was Patrick Bateman, murdering women. It cheered me up a little bit.
I’ll get my test results in a few days. Until then, I have some chicken breasts, six beers, and one more season of Hannibal. I’m sure this means I also have a few more nightmares left in the hopper.