JessicaRulestheUniverse.com

I have lived in the same apartment for half my life, and I’ve never really paid attention to its spaces. I’ve treated it like a hotel, three-star at best, to sleep and bathe in, and from which to launch myself into my daily life. At best I am a boarder; the real residents are my books, clothes, and cats. And I always assumed that I would live in another country or travel constantly, so I’ve never furnished it properly.
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I got email from a representative of J.D. Salinger’s literary trust demanding that I take down a photo, from a blog post in 2011, of a letter Salinger had written in reply to a fan. I first heard of the letter from the excellent Letters of Note, and I linked to an auction house that was selling said letter. While I was deleting the post, having time on my hands, I deleted other posts containing anything that might conceivably be construed as infringement on J.D. Salinger’s rights. (If only they had stopped those two terrible movies about their late client.)
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A stranger called my friend’s landline and started talking about the Bible. No doubt she thought she was giving comfort, and I don’t deny that religion is a source of comfort in dreadful times (especially when religious groups lend their facilities to hospitals and frontliners), but she could have asked before launching into her sermon. Is her church telemarketing? I don’t answer calls from numbers that are not in my directory, unless I feel like yelling at someone. I learned this reply from Ricky: “How did you get this number? Do not call me again. If you call me again, I will report you.” I would say the same if the caller were selling religion.
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Drogon protests rationing, but feline overlords must also check their privilege.

Obviously it’s the pizza’s fault. It arrived unexpectedly, like a time traveler from the past (February), a signal that I could extend my vacation from present reality for another day. I may even take the whole weekend off. After I sweep the floor, because if it gets too dirty it’ll be more work. After I change the litter, because the cats would rather risk kidney disease than use a dirty litterbox. After I wash the dishes, because I only have two sets. After I get the coffee delivery (grown by the Bugkalot of Nueva Vizcaya, whose ancestors were headhunters, not the suits who pirate you from your company), because caffeine is a basic necessity. After…wow, I’m free.
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A scene from The Green Ray (1986) and Say Anything (1989)

I’m taking a day off from living in extremely interesting times and pretending that it’s my old, quiet, fairly uneventful life before lockdown.

I’m bored already. Boredom is a state to be desired, free of fear, anxiety, and existential dread—a luxury. I will never complain of boredom again.
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My friends in corporate jobs who are working from home all agree: It’s exhausting. It’s not just having to work in the same physical and headspace where you live, rest, and sleep, or being around spouse and spawn every single second. It’s being connected to your office all the time, on Google Hangouts, Slack, Zoom, and a host of apps. You may be physically apart from your coworkers, but they’re in your ear all the time so you cannot have a moment to think. You’re under constant surveillance. Of course your employer wants to make sure that you’re actually working and not playing games. That’s based on the assumption that people are most productive when they’re chained to their desks under the boss’s watchful eye. I’m a freelancer so technically WFH, and I can tell you that all the work gets done in intense three-hour bursts, and the rest of the time I’m getting ready for that burst by doing stuff that seems totally unrelated to work (feeding the cats, etc).
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