As Americans die in increasing numbers, my anxiety is ramping back up to late March and April levels.
I can’t sleep.
I miss seeing people. I miss eating out. I miss in-person classes. I miss sex. I miss touching people and animals that don’t live with me. I miss only being worried about what has brought me to the doctor’s office that day, instead of how the visit itself could hurt me.
And I’m terrified.
Terrified of my fellow Americans: the cousins and brothers-in-law and college friends in our feeds, at our grocery stores, masklessly delivering our food because we’re scared to go to the grocery store, who tell us this isn’t real, or that it is but it’s only going to kill off the weak (like me), or that masks don’t work 100% so why bother, or that most of those quarter of a million dead Americans probably actually just died of heart attacks and strokes (it’s just a coincidence that they were intubated at the time), or that they’re safe because they take baths, or that Jesus will protect them, or that all the doctors are lying to make more money . . . .
Prove us wrong, assholes.
Let’s do an experiment.
Put on the masks, wash your hands, practice social distancing. Do it for a month.
If the numbers don’t change, even though we all did it, then you were right. My mask was always a useless piece of fabric, like a tie.
