Ramblings of an Isolated Nobody
by H D Thompson
Under the eye of Covidia I am a walking hospo corpse, and this is my story.
I’ve decided to take this time to enhance my sewing skills. Online tutorials are a great way to learn the basics, but until the little fucker puts the fucking lotion the fucking skin I’m at a complete standstill.
Along with the regular structure of society, I also mourn the loss of conversation staple, ”What have you been up to?”, which is now as superfluous as a gym membership. Or what I assumed a gym membership would be like, I’ve clearly never had one but it seemed to work well enough for the simile.
I worry that I’m losing my sense of humour without the usual audience of my poor friends. I have a backpack that is entirely the face of Sonic the Hedgehog that usually gets the brunt of my volleys, but I never get any feedback from that little prick. (The prick part is funny cos he’s a hedgehog [See what I mean?!])
All I do is lay around listening to music. It’s been said I should stop playing so much Alanis all the time, but I’m old and stubborn and very MorisSETte in my ways. (Nah, still got it)
I tried baking biscuits one day. With a few balls left over I crammed them onto the already full baking tray, assuming they would be fine. I checked on them halfway through only to find that they had merged together forming as one. By the time they were done they had fully unionised against me and declared independent fealty. The game of life is wild.
A new game I made up is how many drying dishes I can put away before the kettle boils. It’s far and away the closest thing I have to a thrill these days and I zoom party meeting are already being scheduled.
I miss human contact pretty bad. How I enthusiastically used to greet a dog in the street is now how I greet another human when I come across one on my legally-mandated-daily-walk-allowance. People went from being Rattata to Diglett so quickly. That said, I do feel more powerful. In the sad empty streets, people actively avoid me whenever they get near. It’s like high school, but I’m heaps hotter and people are scared of catching something far less fun than ‘gay’.
This is a good time to get to that elusive to-do list. You know, the annoying little things that need doing but you keep putting off because you just can’t be bothered? Clean that mould out of the shower! Weed that garden! Sew that button back on! Bury that body! With nothing else going on, the audacity of spring cleaning in autumn is near euphoric.
While weeding the garden I came across one patch that was perfectly rectangular where nothing would grow, not even the really nasty weeds. Just an empty plot. I considered unearthing the demonic presence that obviously lies underneath but who am I to begrudge my garden a place of evil worship.
I got a handful of seeds as a gift, a nice little mix of good and bad seeds. You can tell bad seeds from good seeds by waiting to see which ones grow arms they direct you into.
When I was younger a skater dude knocked me over and he was so hot when he apologised to me I said, “thank you”. It has nothing to do with anything, I just think about it a lot.
These times have me thinking about the song It Wasn’t Me, and how Shaggy admitted years later that it was in fact him that had done it, without specifying what exactly ‘it’ was. I like to think it was just a song about a really good fart.
The levels of restrictions keep increasing. I hear rumours of hot army men roaming the streets which I am not at all mad about. My spank bank is running low on fresh deposits. I imagine eventually the hot army will have to isolate and the streets will be patrolled by sexy robots. They don’t have to be sexy, but it can’t hurt. I just wanna know what stage we get the straight jackets cos those things are so expensive to source on their own and they just seem like the best option for a hug at this point.
The arts are on hold right now. Beyoffcé season, if you will. People are taking up whatever new career path they can in moments of desperation, moving into whatever industry is still running. Sting has transitioned to a bee to help with the current climate, with his new album Buzzkill out in June. Britney has started a fruit grove called Britney’s Pears. However, Leo’s pointless online Brazilian hat business, DiCapRio, refuses to take off. I only hope that Demi Lovato is taking this time to evolve into a full Lovato. This is not the time for low-level ranking gods.
New times mean new trends, and I for one am on board. Having already conquered the Adele Cry, now it’s all about the Iso Cry. It’s basically the same thing except you can listen to anything you want and openly wail at the top of your lungs and it can go on for as long as you want and absolutely no one is coming.
Isolation is difficult. I can’t have sex with anyone. Also, I live in a shed in a backyard where the wifi doesn’t quite reach, so connecting my laptop to my personal hotspot is the closest thing I have to a date at this point. The connection itself only lasts for a few seconds, but that’s still better than some dates I’ve been on in the past.
There are some upsides to worldwide isolation. Blue skies above Chinese cities for the first time in decades, rivers in Venice running clear, and the streets are finally completely bereft of ugly people. Sure, they’re bereft of all kinds of people, but it’s still a step in the right direction.
Web hackers are having a ball, and they’re getting bolder with their attempts, which makes sense since everyone’s using their webcams at the moment. I love those threats that are like, “we’ve hacked your webcam, pay us a billion dollars or we’ll send the footage to everyone in your contact list”, assuming that I’m in any way important enough to hack. There are people out there with way more money and with way more weird sex shit to blackmail than me. No one on my contact list would be surprised to see me cry-wanking in a charmander onesie listening to The Cranberries, and if they were, they have no business being on my contact list in the first place.
With nothing but time, this is a chance to delve into the big questions of the universe. Like, how long really is a piece of string? Were the fish that chose not to evolve legs better off in the end? Are clapper-lights affected by ass-claps?
Taking it as it goes til this wave passes is all we can do really. It’s a jagged little pill we all have to swallow, but we just have to keep faith that everything’s gonna be fine, fine, fine. I’ve got one hand in my pocket, and the other one is reassuring the streaming service that I’m still there.