By Marriya Schwarz
Hey, Craig! Quick question: Do you remember the office? You know, that place you used to go for 8 hours a day while I would soak in our bathtub and let the stress and the unfinished business of my immortal existence drift away?
Honestly, this whole ‘social distancing’ at home thing has gone on a little longer than I can take. And I know, I know: it’s COVID-19, and you’re staying home to protect others, but Craig, you’re not even following precautions. If you’re going to pretend to social distance, don’t throw a breadmaking party with 20 of your closest friends, take pictures of your brioche, and post them on Instagram with #SunsOutBunsOut. That’s right: I’m the one who knocked Kimberly’s freshly baked banana bread right out of her hands and I will not apologize for it. When I tried to bring out the tape measure to demonstrate that you weren’t staying 6 feet away from each other, you shut the kitchen doors and lined all the windows and doors with salt. I had to stay outside, humming a lively dirge to myself for 2 full hours.
I understand pandemics – I truly do. I mean, how do you think I died? It was a cloudy Thursday in 1918 and I slipped on a banana peel while reading the news coverage of the influenza crisis.
But you have to understand: I need some me-time. I’m suddenly not allowed to do my 4 PM re-enactment of the fall that led to my demise because you’re on a ‘Zoom conference call.’ What? Would I get in the way of that dumb beach virtual background you use to demonstrate you have ‘fun quarantine vibes’? No one’s falling for it, Craig. We all know Wine Wednesday is a cry for help. When I wanted to moan about the pain of my ongoing existence, you shushed me because you were watching The Daily Social Distancing Show with Trevor Noah. When my supernatural energy lowered the temperature of the room, you asked me to leave, since I was making your freshly brewed Keurig coffee cold. And when I flickered the lights on and off, you yelled at me because you were ‘power napping’… for 6 whole hours. I can’t do anything anymore.
Do you see the problem here, Craig? Do you get it? I get no space; I get no privacy. We’re together 24/7. I used to be able to subtly move one of your decorative pillows to the other side of the couch, and you would come home all confused, wondering if you had left it there or if there was something weird going on in the house. Our relationship was mysterious and magical. It was this fun little song and dance we used to do every day, but now you know: I’m the one moving the pillows and the mail and your stupid Nintendo Switch. Well, you know what? If I made an Animal Crossing island, it wouldn’t have you, Craig.
All I’m asking is for you to follow social distancing guidelines, so that we can end this pandemic and you can leave me alone. Or burn the possessed doll in the attic that my soul is attached to and let’s be done with it. Just take me out; no one asked you to start a quarantine podcasting series or YouTube vlogs of you cooking pasta for one, Craig.
Look, we can figure this out, but you have to respect me here, man. After all, I was here first.
Anyway, sorry about writing all of this in blood on your bathroom mirror; I just needed you to know how I felt.
P.S. Don’t worry about where I got the blood.
P.P.S. Sorry about your cat.
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