My name is Ezekiel, Ez for short, and every day with my Covid is the same crappy creepy routine of “did you wash your hands dummy?” or “why did you just put that in your mouth, are you stupid, are you an idiot, are you going to die because of having the dumb?”. Yes, my Covid is an asshole. But he’s the kind of asshole that is stuck in the world of minutia, the world of a repetitive and mind numbing enforcement of my every move, my every step, my every purchase, my every thought. My Covid repetitive. My Covid is repetitive. Ah yes, there you go, a soft sample of my living nightmare. Would you like to have a touch of hand washing with that or perhaps a dose of paranoia? Indeed, my Covid gets around it seems.
Yesterday, for example, I decided to channel my inner-australopithecine and hustle my way over to the local Box-store-full-of-cheap-China-shit-that-will-end-soon-and-poverty-stricken-circle-eyed-workers-that-are-at-risk-of-dying-and-who-need-our-help-because-their-greedy-employer-sure-won’t, and who the hell do you think insisted on coming for the ride? Ya, him. Strangely, he always wants to sit in the back seat, talking incessantly about stocks and bonds and hospitals and jobs and economy and the world and horrible death and and and! The jabbering of my Covid from the back seat sounds like a mixture of random radio intelligence, senility, and bad mumble rap (is there good mumble rap?). My hands are white knuckled to the steering wheel when they would prefer to be around Covid’s jello-jabbering neck. Nonetheless, I start my gas guzzling huge made-in-America SUV that…
