You know what? Lockdowns suck. This is an almost irrefutably true and universally agreed upon fact. They are an unwelcome intrusion into the regular rhythms of our lives, relegating us to shame spirals of ‘working’ from home, Netflix binges, and comfy pants that - let’s be honest - needed a wash about a week ago, but they’ve become so warm and familiar and one with you that to cleanse their fabric would be akin to betraying your own being, like scrubbing your dirty filthy soul clean, while knowing that you don’t really deserve it - you only deserve your warm, softly stained pants, worn at the crotch and getting a little sandy at the cuffs. All the while, we are perfumed with the peculiar aroma that permeates your particular spot on the couch, consume a mountain of questionably nutritious food, inevitably washed down with cheap wine that often has the cruel, unforgivable, acidic scent of tropical/blackberry farts, and perpetually put off the next YouTube HIIT workout, cos, honestly, fuck it and fuck this disease.
Lockdowns turn us into caged creatures who often misplace our humanity for the sake of perhaps, if only for a moment, feeling something. Such is our desperation to pretend we are fine, to show how cool we are with this awesome downtime/free time, we overindulge in its surprising excess to communicate to life and its current misfortunes that, yeah, we don’t care. You can’t keep us down. Watch me FEEL! I will lounge, consume, guzzle, glue my eyes to a screen to forget the predicament and, therefore, forget my own persona.
I am lockdown. We are all lockdown. We can do lockdown.
But, do you know what I and - I feel fairly safe in assuming this - most of my immediate acquaintances will never do? Become fucking slaven to the mass hysteria of insufferable stupidity that leads people down the tiring, toilet paper walled path of mince meat and non-perishable pasta known as fucking panic buying.
You craven pieces of human excrement, void of anything beneath the floppy exterior of your disappointing, leathery skins, likely adorned with southern cross tattoos. The sheer volume of filth that you must produce to justify the purchase of so much dunny paper is, simply put, beyond mortal comprehension. Such mess can only be the domain of the gods and, trust me, they watch over you with eyebrows raised, muttering to themselves, ‘that’s a lot of shit,’ and I’m not sure they’re talking about what you stain your toilets with.
I see you, gathered in your little online conspiracy covens, muttering about shortages and rations and how the vaccine is designed to implant mind-controlling microchips as you share the latest Sky News dial-a-quote from that semi-sentiment, mouldy aubergine, Craig Kelly, on all your social medias, each electronically tuned into your specific locations. He’s talking wisdom, you say, as you munch into another bowl of boiled, low-grade beef, served over spaghetti as disappointedly overcooked, slippery, and flaccid as your sex drive. Done all the research for me, you burp as you slurp another noodle in between the loosely pinched arsehole of your lips, bizarrely crusted with hair, dandruff, and dehydrated milk.
If you only possessed an iota more rationality and critical capacity than the moistly plastered grime, manky dust, baked bean cans, and half eaten packets of weevil infested rigatoni that lie forgotten in your uninspiring pantries. Then, maybe - and I stress the qualifying nature of the adverb that in this case refuses to commit to any sense of certainty - maybe, you will be conscious of the weighty stupidity of your behaviour. The utter lack of foresight. The wide-eyed, slack-jawed, fluffy, fearful sheep-like nature of it. The bland idiocy of power purchasing toilet paper as though you are moments away from being stricken with a particularly serious case of infinite diarrhea; a case, I might add, that’s severity, based on your shopping habits, will most likely leave you permanently affixed to your grotesque receptacle, unable to rise and cleanse and actually use the hoarded mountain of toilet paper that makes your bathroom akin to the cave of a crippled, smirking, and disappointing dragon: the crappy third cousin of Smaug. And, truthfully, if only we could be so fucking lucky to see you forever roosted atop your shitty throne, unable to bother the rest of us, as you shit and shit and shit for all days.
I fucking detest you, you exhausting excuse of a homosapien, you utterly sad and ever predictable brute. Fuck off to the depraved dwelling from which you scampered and where you ever lurk, waiting for the next excuse to start screaming that the sky is falling, cos Mr Kelly and some Qanon agent - a barely conscious neckbeard, who is more inconsistent wifi and erased internet porn history than man - told you so.
