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COVID Times: When Every Shitty Medium Essay Could be Your Last
Goddamn, man. That’s pressure.
While I am double-vaxxed and boosted, I do realize that COVID could come for me, wrapping itself endearingly around my pleurally-sensitive, asthmatic lungs and refusing to let go until I expire amidst a sea of tubes and beeps that drive ICU nurses crazy night and day. My alveoli could do their last rapid-gas-exchange thing and no more will I do any of the meaningful things that I do in the course of a day. Like make tea. I make a nice cup of tea. I was recently gifted a tea strainer that, initially, I didn’t know how to use. T’would be a pity if COVID were to cup my buttocks and escort me off into the Netherworld so recently after I’ve learned how to make strained tea.
T’would it not?
Omicron is horny for buttockses to clasp onto and grip and squeeze and bring with it. I know it mostly wants elderly and/or unvaccinated buttocks, for they are the low-hanging meat, but I am guarding mine from all enemies, foreign and domestic. Speaking of which, the guy across the street from me has a Let’s Go, Brandon sign on his front lawn.
That may have seemed tangential, but it’s not. It actually speaks to what this essay is about. See, none of us know when we’re going to go, right? Well, except those of us planning our own demise. As a suicide…