Quarantine really does wonders for your long-term memory. It’s one long walk of shame down memory lane. That is, if you’re not taking your indulgent literal walk of shame already: trying to avoid the judgmental eyes from twitching curtains of neighbors’ windows.
I would love to say I’m spending this time productively, finishing art projects, schoolwork and reading those books that have become purely display at this point. But instead I’m sleeping in ’till 12pm, taking 15 minute showers, and going on the app Nextdoor, which has become my new source of entertainment. In case you don’t know what Nextdoor is, imagine every uptight and neurotic person in your neighborhood, with all the time in the world, having a forum just for them (essentially Facebook without the constant unwanted baby photos, but way more trivial). Everyone’s still just as annoyingly opinionated but you don’t know them, and it always ends in “so I called the police.”
After doing all 3 of these mundane rituals, I sit staring into space, a dangerous place to be in. 2 blinks and my anxiety, catches up with me. I start thinking about how I need to find work. A panicky feeling takes over. I remember all the odd jobs I used to acquire when I was desperate. Wasn’t I so good at finding obscure jobs to do in the past? Then I remember what those jobs were. Dancing for Pedo Larry in a warehouse dressed as a baby doll? He wanted to put lotion on my legs, that’s when I called my ride. “It puts the lotion on its skin?” Not great. I must have had better ideas.
Selling drugs? I was probably the worst drug dealer ever. I sold drugs to someone’s grandma at a bar who’d never done drugs before. I left right before she face dived into the bar (how do you even do that) and she went off with one of the locals, an old guy, who later told me he drove her home, only to find her husband angrily waiting by the door. The husband chased his car out of the driveway and down the street. Now I’m realizing I wasn’t quite as thrifty as I thought, also, maybe a terrible human? All these horrible ways I made money. It took me getting set on fire, for a second time, at one of my shitty jobs to say to myself, “maybe this sucks?”
My favorite job was probably, “lonely Berkley man.” I met him at a bar one night and just listened to him for 5 minutes. He gave me $200, not my intention but I was hired. He would pay me to listen to him complain for an hour over dinner twice a month about all the meth addicted sex workers he was lending money to. Surely I get brownie points for that, I was practically a therapist. Ah to be young and without shame. Maybe I’ll go outside.