Dear Diary, Day 3: We Need A Better Car For The Purge

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Dear Diary,

Things took a turn this morning. I woke up to screams. I should probably have run to the problem to make sure everything was alright, but I actually took my time. What can I do, realistically, against a knife-wielding invader? I don’t know martial arts. At best, I can find a larger knife. But really, if someone breaks into the house, great. Nice to meet you, thanks for bringing some new energy into the mix. Care for a child’s handful of almonds, aka lunch?

As it turns out, my girlfriend had discovered a brown, calcified mass on the beautiful couch that cradles us through hours of television binging.

Remember, this isn’t our home. It belongs to her parents, who are marooned in Miami. They often AirBnB the entire place out, so preserving its cleanliness and presentability is paramount. Replicating a couch shit? Not great.

I was promptly shown the cleaning supplies, as well as the corkscrew dabbing technique to use while blotting. It’s not far off from the pepper grinder technique I’ve been trying to teach her, unsuccessfully, for foreplay. People learn at different speeds.

Philadelphia—only 35 minutes from us—has declared they won’t arrest prostitutes, drug dealers, or other non-threatening criminals for the time being. Twitter is calling it the “Philly Purge.” I wish we had a better car for this. For a true purge, you want something with 4WD and a retractable roof from which to mount some weapons. Her mom’s Camry won’t do us any favors as we back over bodies to make sure.

I’m trying to keep a positive mentality, but it’s hard. I’m grateful that she and I were able to be together for this, but we were also a way’s off from becoming husband and wife. Then, *Thanos snap*, we’re married. Thrust into married life by an outbreak. We’ll adapt; we had a year and a half to build on before this. But I’m curious about all the brand new relationships that were forced to jump to hyperdrive. How many three-weekers are realizing that the “really cool chick” and the “really sweet guy” they thought they’d found are actually terrible people? How long until their thrice-per-day sexcapades dwindle to once, then every other? How do you break up during a quarantine?

I weighed myself this morning. I’m down to 203. It’s the lightest I’ve been since I got my driver’s license at 16. I suspect I’ll lose another 10 pounds over the next few weeks. All I do is run now. I’m turning into a fucking “runner.” You know those guys that wear those tiny shorts with the seam that runs up to the waistband, who aren’t afraid to dump themselves if they’re making good time? The cross country team? God dammit.

I wish I had something more positive and empowering to share, but the interminability of this has finally sunk in. The government is talking about sending everyone checks for $2,000. Allen Iverson would buy a watch, that’s for sure. I’ll probably buy some of those Asics running shorts with a built-in diaper. That’s who I am now.

Love on a Wednesday,