Desperate Times Call for Desperate Measures
The mind is wandering and I have now lost track of the number of days of self-imposed isolation inside these four walls. Sentences run on indefinitely and often senselessly. The incessant blather of the talking heads on TV with their anxiety inducing stories of impending catastrophe and doom and devastation, depredation, defoliation, obliteration, depilation, castigation and any number of other “-ations”, drone like a swarm of bees inside my throbbing skull. The imagined ecstasy of reaching inside the TV and grabbing one by the collar and shaking him vigorously until he shuts his spewing pie-hole is the only calming thought I am currently capable of producing.
The Navigator does not seem to be affected by the droning, in fact, it is her fault the insipid talking heads are polluting my home. The Navigator has followed the virus since the moment that Chinese person ingested the very first spoonful of bat soup. She tracked its progression 24 hours a day even during our brief vacation in Orlando a couple of weeks ago. She coerced me into visiting several drug stores in Orlando in search of surgical masks. I was unable to secure any masks so she berated me and threatened never to speak to me if she or I died of the virus.
I engaged in a fruitless struggle with the vile virus for the Navigator’s attention. I did not stand a chance. Maybe it was the virus’ contagious personality or perhaps the reports of how it literally took people’s breath away but whatever the reason, I felt inadequate. The Navigator was enthralled with the coronavirus. I am jealous of the virus and I hate it. The coronavirus is foremost in the Navigator’s life even to the point of joining us as we go to bed at night. It captivates her despite every effort on my part to garner attention. My Chippendale moves no longer have the desired effect and my bodybuilder poses go completely unnoticed even when I flex the pectoral and gluteal muscles. She only has eyes for the virus.
The only time she notices is when I cough. She immediately scrutinizes me for any sign of her beloved virus. I revel in a perverse sense of joy in that I am able to steal away, even for a moment, a semblance of affection from my viral rival. The Navigator asked in a most tender voice, “What’s wrong with you? I can’t hear the TV.” When I explained I choked on a cracker crumb her gaze dimmed and she turned her attention back to the accursed TV.
Yesterday, the Navigator made several homemade surgical masks for the family, including me. She is very crafty and made a bunch of masks in a matter of hours. On the face of it, this should be viewed as a positive sign that she still wants me. Upon deeper reflection, I remembered the cross-stitch project she started in 1990 when we were dating. It was of an Elkhart Green 1973 Corvette and she completed 75% of it. At the time I saw it as an act of true love. Fast forward to today and the project is still at 75%. I have asked her to finish it before I croak but she says she is too busy. In comparison, she completed over a dozen masks in a single day for the virus from hell. As they say, actions speak louder than words. I get the message.
I refuse to go gentle into that good night and will not lose the Navigator to some lousy infectious speck. I will wash my hands and every other body part frequently, fervently, and frothingly to eradicate every trace of it. I will continue to socialistically distance myself to starve it and will relish its suffering as it begs for mercy. I want to kill it with my bare hands, if I had tiny microscopic hands, and long to feel its life force ooze from its tiny body as my teeny fingers gripped its tiny throat ever more tightly. Upon its demise I will rejoice and dance on its tiny grave with my tiny micro feet and pee on it as I do so, messy as that may be.
My unfailing ally in this war has been Violette. Her “nom de guerre” is Vicious Violette. She frequently orders me to feed her and is very generous with hugs. She also has musical talent and frequently regales me with renditions of “Let It Go”, “The Wheels on the Bus Go Round and Round”, “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star”, and the birthday song. She will also occasionally improvise songs and lyrics. The following is one she dedicated to me. She calls me Po.
“I love Po
I love Po
I loooooove Po
I love Pooooooo
I love Po”
Friends, do not worry about me. I am resilient. We will prevail in this war with the insidious virus. My mind is in war mode and I will remain this way until my dreaded rival is no more. Violette and I will do everything in our power to eradicate this scourge on humanity. I am asking all of you to do your part to help me quash this disgusting little bug so we can go back to normal and the Navigator starts paying attention to me again. Stay healthy my masked and disinfected warriors.