Will we survive the pandemic-probably. But I may lose my mind first,
Stress Is A Killer. And I am stressed.
Still working, for which I am so grateful as financial ruin is not something to consider in your sixties. It is a marathon they say. My bank callled to remind me to come in for investment counseling, and I said, Have you seen the news? The stock market is crashing.
Oh yeah, they said, the best time to invest. Buy low. Sell high.
Makes sense, but there lurks a dread that this is just another trick to take the last shreds of security away. Fuck finance, let’s dance!
So we keep dancing .
Six feet apart.
Do you think air sex is next?
Truly strange times.
Inside the fortune cookie, a small piece of paper.
You crack the inedible treat to get to your future, your fortune, the gooey truthy centre.
It says, breathe.
Inspiration is the taking in of breath.
Shallow breathing in these times of pandemic.
Don’t touch. Barely breathe. Wash your hands for twenty seconds.
I must confess I have always been more of a ten second kind of guy.
So I wash twice.
Wash, lather, rinse. REPEAT.
Repeat or repent, sinner.
Are you a repeat sinner?
But concentrate kid. Keep your eyes on the bouncing ball. The prize inside.
The fortune cookie crumbling in the crackerjacks.
Did you touch it? You just bought it. Can’t put it back. Wash, spray, disinfect.
I went shopping for food last night. A young couple reached for the last bottle of whipped cream.
They put it back, I lean in.
They reconsider and it is still in there hand. I want that cream, but you know.
They touched it. They keep touching and dithering. So cute these young people.
So touching. So much touching.
There are many small worlds in our big world. Many views and theories.
I keep getting so many informative videos from “friends “.
Except most are filled with fake news. Mistruths. Lies even.
Or just misguided, well meaning?
Which in another tune was amusing. Now it could be deadly.
I am writing this on a phone, which keeps autocorrecting.
Phone was just turned into phobe.
Which sounds like fob. No keys anymore, only fobs.
Do you feel a little fobbed off?
Just tell the world to fob off.
And keep dancing.
It’s almost happy hour.
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