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As each new month is upon us, it's one more month closer to the end of the worst year for the entire fucking world, so we can finally have 2020 behind us and be able to start fresh with 2021. Or at least that's what we think. As if the virus cares about the flipping of another calendar page, whether it be a new month or a new year. At least, though, we know that WHEN November goes the way it MUST, 2021 at least stands a fighting chance once the vile scourge's slime is finally scraped from the helm.
In March, when an EMT friend stopped by briefly, I him what the "word" was about how long the quarantine would last. He said that among his colleagues, they were saying at least June or July but weren't broadcasting it because people would freak out. "Forget about having a regular summer," he said. I said, "That's what I'd expected," and didn't care since my summers are no different from other seasons. Now here we are in August (I'm writing this on 8/5!), and I'm willing to wait it out through fall and even winter. I just don't get the rush.
Fuck you and your "bubble" you "trust". I'm not getting together with anyone anywhere without a mask, or even with one, especially not indoors, not even for ten minutes. The virus doesn't give a shit if the other people are family or friends and how long you've known them, doesn't give a fuck if it's been "forever" since you socialized or hugged someone, and isn't going to give you a pass because you'd been "good" for all the months leading up to now. Hate to burst that fucking bubble, idiots, but the virus is as deadly as it ever was.
I'm not buying this nonsense that Kim Kardashian really cares about her fucking train wreck of a husband. That "beautiful" bit of prose she posted on social media about his mental health, after he wore what I think was a bullet-proof vest at some sort of "rally", where he went off the rails about Harriet Tubman, seems like just another empty pathetic public pose. If she truly gave a shit about his well-being and mental health, she'd wield whatever power she has to stop this jive bullshit now. Anyone who would vote for him needs their head examined as well.
No haircut since November and it's getting out of hand. I keep thinking I should've gone in mid-March right before the lockdown (or whatever it's called), but I was a bit wary then and also wanted to save the money. Now that I think about it, it was just one more indoor space that I avoided at a time that the virus was probably laying in wait, quietly infecting people without our knowing it, so I may have dodged a spiky invisible bullet. But whatever the case, this shit's out of control and I haven't feel this hide-in-the-house-hideous in ages.
I recently dressed in "real" clothes (a dress, heels, and handbag) for the first time since mid-March, just to go to the UPS Store (and a marvelously coordinated mask). I didn't wear "hose" since it was about 85 degrees, so I suffered blisters even though my round trip was only about a mile. Subsequent brief outings had me in capris and a tank top and sneaker mary janes, which didn't feel as cute or "me". I must wear preventative Band-Aids next time (sexy!) because if I'm going to be out and about, I need to feel like a "proper" lady.
The virus isn't going to contain itself within any artificial constructs. It's not on a timetable. It's not going to say, hey, guys, you know what, it's summer and I know most of you (but not you, Jodi), want to be out and about, going to the beach and picnics, so I'll just go away now, I've had my fun, now, go, you have yours, with my blessing.
"I can't wait for 2020 to be over already." The virus doesn't care about flipping the calendar to a new page and, the last time I looked, doesn't even own a watch.
I cannot promise that my "batches" won't be boring for a while given what passes for my daily life these days. I won't say "the new normal" because this is a detour; how temporary, I don't know, but hopefully more temporary than NYC scaffolding. My life now consists of morning runs, working (huge gratitude for this), my cat, daily Marco Polo messages with my best friend, hanging on my private patio, cooking, and watching movies. I plan to incorporate reading and drawing/painting but feel stunted for some reason. I, however, am rarely, if ever bored. So at least there's that.
Since June, I've been running five to six mornings a week but feel guilty if I don't do the sixth and even feel "off" for the one day I don't do it. This is the same way I felt about the gym, back in the days of yore, so I suppose this means that the outdoor running has now become as vital to my well-being (physical and mental) as the gym. This delights me because not only did I think I wouldn't be able to run six-plus miles without too much effort but that I wouldn't want to do it.
I have HBOMax for a free one-week trial, so I'm cramming in the most recent season of Curb Your Enthusiasm and browsing the offerings for movies. So my plan to start reading more (I feel woefully illiterate) will have to be delayed by a week so I can watch everything I've been saving, since I don't know if I'll continue the service after the trial expires. There are enough movies on there, though, that I actually want to watch and won't just be forcing myself to watch to make it "worth it", so maybe it would be, well, worth it.
I'm really branching out now. Instead of just leaving the apartment for early morning runs, I've run a few errands, including walking to UPS to drop off packages, dropping laundry at the place up the street, and going using the ATM at the bank to get money to pay for the laundry (they still accept cash!).
Okay, that's all I've done, so saying "including" is acting like there's more. And there's not. Although after dropping a UPS package the other day, I go slightly out of my way on the return trip home, so I guess I'm really livin' large.
I've *never* understood the appeal of Disney World for anyone whose age is above single digits. I've never had any desire to go, even when I was younger, and have always said that you literally couldn't pay me to go, that if I won a trip there I'd donate it to a kid who really wanted it. Can someone above the age of nine tell me what the fuck is so compelling about it that people would risk their lives by going during a pandemic? Seems like going now will guarantee to make it a smaller world after all, no?
A certain boyfriend was a big mistake, but I did make one friend through him, even if just on Facebook for now, so it wasn't a total bust. But the guy himself and our getting together never should have happened, and I knew it from the get go. I manufactured an attraction to him when one wasn't even there. The reasons are multiple and not worth going into, but suffice it to say that I cringe when I think of ever letting him touch me. When I see photos of him now, heavier and grungier, I cringe that much harder.
Cat A. Maran regrets having changed her name when she was 18, when she thought she was going to be a star and people would marvel over how cool her parents were to have given her such a name rather than, say, Sharon Lynn Morse, her real name, which is about as interesting as Cat A. Maran's "famous" favorite food, barely toasted white toast with a swipe of mayonnaise topped with crushed Frosted Flakes. But now she's 75, bored to tears by toast, and barely has the energy to request the nursing staff just call her Sharon for fuck's sake.
I met a 135-pound short-haired St. Bernard named Ivy in Central Park this morning. I'm having groceries delivered from Prime Now for the first time in months, now that it's easy to get a delivery slot again, rather than go into Fairway, which, although much closer, still gives me a touch of anxiety because it's indoors. Both of these events make me happy to live in NYC (among many others, natch) and both have made my day. But as much as I'm thrilled to soon have Violife "Just Like Feta" in my hands this afternoon, meeting Ivy wins, hands down.
Brian Kemp, Georgia's brain-dead governor, banned his state's cites and counties from mandating masks in public places. Adorable!
If people had a shred of fucking intelligence and gave even one whit or shit about the welfare of others, they'd say, bah, this is poppycock, wear masks anyway, and wouldn't have to be told what to do or not do. They'd say fuck this "order" bullshit, we're going to do it on our own. But the same cretins who say they don't like being told what to do will now do what they're being told to do.
Verdict: People are garbage.
I'm on my way to leave Central Park after my run, when I see him on a path with his dog. I haven't seen them since April 2019, when we'd met in the dog run, and then it'd been two years since we'd dated. (By "we", I mean the three of us; I only dated him beyond the second date because I was enamored of his dog.)
As always, his T-shirt is tucked into his shorts and his arms don't even look strong enough to hold the leash, which he lets go of. The dog comes over. I'm done here.
In the late '90s, I only wore running shoes that were black or with bits of white and/or gray. My wardrobe was 95% those colors as well, and when I branched out and wore a hot pink sweater set to the office, it caused a huge gossip ripple.
Now I want my running shoes to be as colorful as possible, which is why I just bought a pair of Brooks Glycerin 17 (on sale!) in a gorgeous red/pink for a few more shekels than a pair that was black with only a touch of purple. Color makes running "fun" somehow.
1. I have no TaB in the house. Or Coke Zero. Or anything carbonated.
2. I have not had fries since before the lockdown.
3. I finally took laundry to the place up the street. The days of handwashing in the sink while envisioning myself beating the clothes against a rock and/or using an old-fashioned washboard are behind me.
4. I'm about to watch the HBO Axios interview with the twat-faced toddler and his Playskool charts. If you hear the sound of a Jewess tearing her luxurious hair out by its roots, you'll know where it's coming from.
Five years ago today, the lovely, gorgeous, and spectacularly talented Lola came to live with me. I just spun around in my chair to face her, where she's roosting at scapula level in the carpeted lounge part of her scratching post, to say, "Happy Meowy Day!" and Alexa, who'd just been told to set a timer for ten minutes and was apparently still "listening", responded with something about "cat facts" and rambled for quite some time with various "sentences" containing at least three "meow"s per sentence. I just tried to ask for "cat facts" specifically but she won't repeat it.
The last time I took my laundry to the cleaners was toward the end of February. One day in mid-March, I told myself, "Tomorrow," and then when that tomorrow came, the place was closed due to the lockdown. There is a really trite "lesson" in there that I won't even address because it's so fucking obvious. Anyway, I took my stuff in two days ago and it feels like Christmas. My huge bundle was $42, and worth every penny so I could feel like the stuff was really clean and not just "good enough" done by hand in a sink.
If you wear a fucking mask, the sooner this fucking virus horror will be over and you and everyone else won't have to wear a fucking mask. Or don't wear one now and run the risk of killing someone else because you're a selfish fucking bitch baby. If by some chance there are some stragglers here who still think masks are bullshit, defriend me posthaste, pronto, and/or immediately, whichever comes first, because you're as dead to me as if you're a Tr*mp supporter. Also, if you're uncomfortable with the word "fuck", oh well. At least I didn't use "cunt". Today.
Please stop saying "He's going to kill us all." Some of us are being extremely vigilant. Some of us are still not going out unless we must, not proceeding beyond the first "phase". Yes, this so-called President is an utter failure, disaster, catastrophe, and menace. Yes, he's the most incompetent collection of cells to occupy a set of slimy skin walking (or waddling) the planet. Yes, he's a repugnant, repulsive, hateful, misogynistic, racist sack of festering offal. But we're not. We're still doing our part to keep ourselves healthy and alive. Stop acting like we have no control over ourselves.
Good night, Mr. Regis Philbin. I'll always remember how, when I was in the audience of "Live With Regis and Kelly" for the first (of many) times, in November 2001, and won the $250 Macy's gift card, jumped out of my seat and stood, arms outstretched like Jesus, cheering like I'd just "risen", for far longer than anyone was comfortable with, you came over during a commercial break, asked what I was on, and I said if I told you I'd have to kill you. I didn't tell you, so I'm not responsible for your passing. (P.S. It was coffee.)
"Sorry", but I *will* laugh my ass off anytime some jeering jackass mocks the virus, downplays the gravity of the pandemic, dismisses it as a hoax, conspiracy and fraud, thinks they're immune, then winds up infected and suffering symptoms that have them fearing for their health and life. I will raise my right eyebrow so far up my forehead with not giving a shit about that person's foolish ass that Joan Crawford and Marlene Dietrich will raise from the dead just to express their Kelly green envy of my skill. You're not a fucking superhero; you're a fucking stupid zero.
Dearest Soomsters! I just tried the new version of the chocolate tahini, and I'm horrified to report that it is EVEN BETTER THAN THE ORIGINAL.
Why horrified? Because now you don't have to stir it, so it's more readily eat-able on an "I-need-a-little-something-sweet" whim. You don't have to get out one of your stronger spoons or use any so-called elbow grease at all to generate a few solid stirs to break up those lumps/chunks that could sometimes form, which, though like little heaven-sent hunk-bursts of halvah, interrupted the literal flow.
We can now eat an entire jar with more alacrity.
Rep. John Lewis will lie in state in the Capitol until Tuesday and then moved outside for the public. When asked if he'd be attending, the cheap rancid trash bag crammed to overflowing with rotting offal and all other manner of putrid waste, masquerading both as a human being and a President, said, "No, I won't be going."
Ladies and gentlemen, those are his five words for the day. In 20 minutes, he may be able to recite them again, in that order, for extra-crispy motherfucking douchebag points.
"No, I won't be going."
He can't rot in hell soon enough.
You know what? If these witless cretins want to take hydroxychloroquine or whatever other bullshit "cure" that they're still trying to push, now that some clump of quacks has come out of the sewage swamp wearing white lab coats to claim that the good Dr. Fauci is wrong and they're right, crowing that COVID is a hoax and all that other conspiracy claptrap, LET THEM. Let them think this is all a big cover-up for something as their coffins are covered in dirt. Let them exercise their freedom to be fucking morons and maybe even die for their misguided cause.
The marvelous thing about running outdoors rather than doing gym "cardio" is that the gym afforded me only the option of which machine to use, in a fixed position, with a view of the same people. I always considered the treadmill superior because I could vary speed and incline on a whim, but I'm thrilled to admit my error. Outside I can vary my route and view, and not only am I not stuck looking at the same people but anyone who sees *me* only does so for the few seconds it takes them to pass me or vice-versa. Win-fucking-win.
FYI, Times Square still massively blows even when relatively people-free at 6:00 a.m. Why anyone except for lovely lunatics running in the rain, passing through quickly (?), would want to be there is beyond me. I couldn't convince myself it was apocalyptic or eerie or even marginally interesting without the ubiquitous clog of sartorially challenged tourists en route to Olive Garden. That entire swath of the city was to be avoided even before the virus and now it's no different. I wanted to see, though, just to see, and it's still about as thrilling and enthralling as beige wall-to-wall carpeting.
Herman Cain was an adult. He had a functioning brain stem, a mind of his own, and knew how to read, yet chose to believe nonsense rather than science. He had facts at his disposal and, if he'd wanted one, a mask as well, and not only disregarded both, but spoke out against masks on Twitter as well, so he not only put his own life at risk but jeopardized that of the legion of cretins who heeded him. Fuck the jive bullshit about not speaking ill of the dead. Being dead doesn't preclude you from censure or command compassion.
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