The coronavirus pandemic is causing catastrophic and multivalent shock waves that will impact global trade, geopolitics, and social norms for years to come. Tragically, its greatest casualty has gone unreported-my good fucking time! This unprecedented historical cataclysm is turning out to be a real bummer for me, specifically.
For one thing, I’m soooooo bored! I’m going stir crazy being inside my two-bedroom apartment catching up on TV shows, baking bread, and reading for pleasure. What is this, Guantanamo Bay?!
I tell ya, this wholly pervasive international health calamity hasn’t done any favors for my stomach, either. Yesterday I went to the grocery store and the Hormel Chili was completely out of stock. When I asked to speak to the manager, all she did was apologize and suggest that I try the Amy’s Kitchen-brand chili instead. Okay, now I’m certain this is Gitmo.
Our nation’s healthcare workers will likely need months of therapy to process the stress and trauma of the virus’ strain on local hospitals. But you know what else the virus is straining? My sex life. My impressively consistent rate of monthly coitus is taking a major hit right now. This collective societal disruption is so irritating!
God, is there anything as annoying as a humanity-altering highly transmissible respiratory virus? I bought tickets to see The Black Keys in July and if I can’t whip out my $29.99 faux leather H&M jacket because of a tiny little ventilator shortage, I will fucking kill myself. Refund? Ha! I take it back, Ticketmaster is infinitely more frustrating than COVID.