Cases continue to rise, and, frankly, I don’t really feel like being a part of it. Or any of us being a part of it, really. And that extends beyond the family.
It rained today.
And I’ve begun to unpack.
Unpack from what, you ask?
Fire season. After the second round of evacuations, we decided to just keep everything in the living room, ready to go again, should we need to. Not just go-bags, but important paperwork and keepsakes. Books of exceptional value that would be too difficult and time-consuming to replace. Photographs. Personal belongings.
I received word the other day that I’ll be continuing to work from home well into next year, at least. If I crunch numbers involving vaccine viability, testing, distribution, plus psychological factors of suddenly having to deal with enclosed spaces populated by objectively reasonable yet subjectively potentially terrifying numbers of people, plus potential office reconfigurement, I’m realistically thinking maaaaaybe 2022 will be more likely. But that’s just my own speculation.
Right now, the objective is to Stay the Fuck Alive by Staying the Fuck Inside as much as humanly possible for As Long As Fucking Necessary.
Can I just say this year has been the stupidest pile of shit I’ve ever dealt with?
I think we can all pretty much say that.