Ain’t this some shit?


Years ago, my baseball buddy was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Basically, one day we were playing pregame catch, a month later he was dead. It shocked me just how fast things unraveled.

I went to visit him near the end. He was in bed, vaping some THC to kill the pain. The first thing he said when our eyes met was, “Ain’t this some shit?” It was.

And here we are in another bowl of shit. I’m healthy (enough), but this virus has changed the world. I keep thinking I’ll awaken from the nightmare and all will be as it was. I’ll need to get groceries, a quick workout, and then get showered and ready for work. I’ll contemplate resuming my mate search.

Yet, when my lights fade on at 6:15 am, I’m still in some shit. One cat’s cuddled next to me. He’s always cold. The other starts purring and licking the hand that feeds him. I stare at the ceiling, deep inhale, sigh, and try to remember what day it is before checking my phone. My morning piss is clearer these days.

Sure, there are things to do. Plenty of books are waiting to be read. I’m watching TV series I never had time for. Although this would be a fine time to improve my diet, there’s an assortment of bad-for-mes on the counter.

I spend most of the day with COVID-19 news in the background. More sick. More dead. More angry people. Be angry. Live. This is simple for an introvert like me, but I understand how extroverts must be climbing the walls. Maybe we’ll learn to appreciate new perspectives. How about a hobby? I could learn Italian. I know most of the swear words. It’s a start.

It’s funny with all of the background news, the same damn commercials seem to be on a loop. Similar to the fucking Prince and Michael Jackson song loop at work, I’ve become too familiar. There’s some health commercial where a woman is talking an elderly couple into some new insurance scam. At one point she switches to her man’s voice and says, “I sure do.” I say it at the exact same time and my cats stare quizzically.

Think I might be melting into a crazy person. Fuck, I’m almost sixty. The worst part of deterioration is awareness. I see where I’m heading. I know I’m slipping.

Oh, another favorite commercial is on. This one features a line that I repeat half a dozen times after the actor says it. It’s some sort of foofoo dog food that gives the pet “high-quality poops.” You have to extend the “s” at the end of poops-s-s to make it effective.

What the fuck is a high-quality poop? For me, it’s one requiring a single wipe. For my dog? Fuck if I know. Guess it would be one that doesn’t stink and rolls itself to the curb and into the gutter. If I ever start a jazz band, we will be called “High-Quality Poops.”


Anyway, how about this? Fuck. It’s all changed. Shit is NOT going back to “normal.” We’re in the middle of defining a new normal. No crowds. No hugs and handshakes. Fucking masks. Have you tried wearing a mask with sunglasses? Fog. Goddamn fog.

Man, I already do most of what I do from my loft. I have my computer, a coffee mug warmer, two cat beds, and a weight bench. Ten steps away is my throne — yes, for high-quality poops — and moist wipes to maintain this low-quality asshole.

When this started, I experimented with having a fuckmate to pass the time. Bad idea. Lasted two days. I curled up on my chair and thought of nothing more than how to get her out. Eventually, she left. Angry. Meh, she’s not the first nor the angriest. The lesson cost me a few rolls of TP, half a case of beer, and a few bottles of wine. I’m fine.

So, it’s 4 pm on some fucking day. It’s a weekend but those lost their value in March. I’ll take a walk, shower, watch the news, drink a premixed margarita, and binge some series until dream time. Then it’s rinse, repeat.

Truly, this is some shit.

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About the author

Author of humorous essays about relationships and lifestyles.