The quarantine scab

Were in quarantine. What the hell do you expect me to write about.

All the fabulous dots that I haven’t collected? 

The occasional 12 pm mornings?

The Easter without the egg? 

The one time I left my house in the past month?

The slacking hygiene?

The two hour ques?

The weird dreams?

The nightmares?

The weirder dreams?

The falling in love dreams?

The single waking life?

The coronavirus updates infecting my youtube recommendations?

The first week that was unproductive?

The second that was taken seriously?

The third that failed?

The repetition?

The high emotions?

The long route to the shops?

The water thats too hot for 20 seconds? 

The porn, the porn or the porn?

The biweekly abstinence?

The rediscovery of porn?

The stillborn ideas?

The will to wake up?

The focus on work?

The Que that visits my doorstep?

The frustration emanating off of vulnerable family?

The clapping at 8?

The clapping at 8 again?

The fuck clapping at 8 again?

The resentment of false hope because we aren’t even at the peak yet?

The scaffold outside my window, holding me captive from the sun?

The Remo, the Zoom, the Google docs, the Slack, the Wiip thing I never use?

The tabs, way too many tabs? 

The close, shut down and restart?

The thinking over the phrase social distancing?

The wiping the handle when entering and exiting?

The downstairs neighbours that were ill?

The feeling ill after leaving the house?

The morning dancing?

The reservation I feel at the use of the word frontline and similar militaristic language? 

The going outside and feeling the sun?

The desktop computer that made me look asleep when I slouch?

The Netflix I leech off of Luce?

The times it said there were too many accounts?

The OA? 

The moment Brit Marling became my new favourite person? 

The chair that needed its screws tightened?

The boredom?

The keyboard that doesn’t have a hashtag?

The TDB doc that no one has updated?

Or the new people I haven’t spoken to?