Notes from Quarantine

I am a sick man.  I don’t have the virus but I consult my physician daily.  Dr. Phil Van Ozhelsing gives expert medical advice from his Ouija board and Magic 8-Ball.   He warns me to be constantly aware of the symptoms:

• Sleeping throughout the day
• Taking the form of a bat
• Developing an uncontrollable blood lust

Should any of these symptoms appear,  I should seek medical attention immediately.

I am an unattractive man.  I know this because my wife went out for toilet paper five weeks ago and hasn’t returned.  Yes, unattractive.  Except for my hands.  They’re pristine for I wash them ceaselessly, relentlessly.  In fact, I’m washing them as I write these notes. 

I am a bored man.  Boredom has plagued me for a long time; even before I was furloughed from my career.  I managed the parking deck at the state unemployment agency.  Every day the unemployed came to file for benefits.  Each day I turned them away, saying the lot was full but a space may open soon.

The would-be claimants bribed me to secure the open space.  I accepted the bribes to keep them from feeling they have left something undone.  They would ask, “How can everybody get access to a space but me?”  I tell them, “The space was intended for you but someone had double parked.  I am now going to shut the gate.”  The lot remained empty and no claims were processed.

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And so now I am living out quarantine in my corner, taunting myself with a spiteful and utterly futile consolation.  I take solace that it is even impossible for an interesting man to seriously occupy himself, and only dullards keep themselves busy.

The monotony forces me to clean out my storage space.

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I suspect I have liver problems.  Probably because cocktail hour starts promptly at nine A.M. and continues throughout the day. 

Food is scarce in quarantine.  Greedy, selfish hoarders have depleted the shelves of most grocery staples.

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The helplessness in quarantine forced me to become conscious, too conscious. The lack of power over my ennui drove me to seek help.  Consequently, I tried teletherapy but could only reach a dog psychologist.  The diagnosis was that I haven’t been properly house trained and seek love in table scraps.

I’ve discovered finding pleasure in despair to stave off boredom.  I take an online interior decorating class from an art historian who moonlights as a dominatrix.   Each day, she commands me to redecorate my bedroom twice.  Today’s assignment was to renovate my space in Abstract Shabby and Modern Flogging.

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When boredom is at its greatest, I create poetry.  Blackout poetry to be specific.  The aspiring poet reads a passage, finds the relevant words and blacks out the remaining text.  The poem below is about my relationship with my parents. 

As I sort, a pattern emerges.  I discover that Blue M&Ms outnumber Red M&Ms almost three to one.  Now, I foam at the mouth and gnash my teeth.  I’ve suffered from insomnia for five weeks.

Obviously, the disproportion in Blue to Red M&Ms originates in a deep state propaganda campaign.

As I end these notes, I think it was a mistake writing them.  Because do you know, gentle readers, the real point of my boredom, its essence, the most revolting aspect of it?  I lied when I said I was bored.  I lied out of boredom. 

• Contemplating Life Lessons in Starbucks
• My Grandfather’s Favorite Poem by Me
• Analyzing Post-it Note Messages
• Thinking of Dad in the Frozen Food Aisle of an Empty Supermarket
• Animal Rights Group Unveils New Mascot