I woke up this morning exhausted after nine hours of something that wasn’t sleep. There was nothing refreshing about it, nothing restorative. It was all bad dreams and worrisome thoughts, tossing and turning. But that’s what the double whammy of a wildly spreading contagion + corrupt government does to you: it upends your life.
Somewhere in all the melee I lost my motivation to care. About anything. I don’t care how I look. I don’t care if I’m clean or what I wear or how I sound or if my shoes are on the right feet. I’ve stopped tucking my shirts in and sticking down cowlicks and watching my language. Manners and dignity went by the wayside, too. Burping is my new sport.
In the old days, I was neurotic about order and tidiness. Now? Not so much. Mountains of laundry threaten to smother me in an avalanche of t-shirts and shorts and socks. The floor is more dog hair than carpet and the upholstery is practically mohair. I stopped dusting and vacuuming in, when was it, April, maybe? I’ve kept up with the dishes, though, and the right angles and rows are still as close to perfect as I can make them— albeit dusty and furry.
But you know what else I lost in all the chaos? I’ve lost the funny. I lost clever and witty, too. I even lost the desire to try. The truth is, my head is hollowed out and it’s scary. Before, I thought it was fun to sit at my computer and work on ideas, build weird little worlds out of words. That enthusiasm has vanished and I miss it like an arm. I wish I knew how to restore it, but I don’t.
So my apologies to you. I’m hoping for a miracle, of course, but there’s just no guarantee, is there? It could happen, though. And I’m standing by with my fingers, eyes, and legs crossed and a butterfly net to catch any wayward ideas that might fly by.
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