June 8, 2020, 1:53 p.m.
So far, I’ve read a book on North Korea, tried unsuccessfully to pitch my writing, and achieved moderate proficiency in Italian. I’ve re-strung my guitar with lightweight steel, begun a regime of pilates and cardio, and cleared my skin using YouTube and a carefully curated set of skin products ordered from Amazon. I’ve styled and re-styled my hair to the point that the ends dried up and threatened to flake away, and so I was forced to stop. I’ve sketched an anatomically correct Dalmatian and signed my name next to it.
I need to keep busy, otherwise I’ll be consumed by boredom as a self-immolating monk is consumed by flame.
I have lengthy conversations with myself in the in-between moments. I ask myself what I am still doing here, as the U.S. implodes around me, around all of us. “Wallowing in the no-job blues,” I say. I ask myself what I plan to do with my mountain of student debt. Will I set it alight for heat and warmth? snarls the voice. “Actually,” I say, “I intend to fashion the debt into a sort of crude mound that I can live inside, like an igloo.”
What’s your next move, Marisa? “I don’t know,” I say, “‘cause I’m short on answers and long on time…”