While most people have described this quarantine as “boring” or “inactive” or “oppressive, almost to the point of self-ruin,” for me, it has been filled with excitement. I was getting close to both summiting Mount Netflix and circumnavigating my bookshelf. I’d done everything there was to do in this apartment-turned-jail-cell. I even changed the filter in the Brita pitcher!
At first, it was fun. The lava did everything I was hoping it would, and more! I made s’mores… until I ran out of marshmallows. We ran the high-stakes American Ninja Warrior course… until I ran out of aloe and Neosporin. Plus there were only so many routes from the couch to the kitchen, and back. I even produced a shot-for-shot remake of the scene where Frodo throws the ring into the hellish depths of Mount Doom in Mordor.
Being a 90s kid, you’d think I would have learned the lessons of Jumanji. Alas, here I am, along the banks of my own personal River Styx.
I called the fire chief and a highly-rated local witch doctor, both of whom are essential workers, and yet neither of whom thought I was being respectful of their time. I didn’t have to re-watch The Leftovers to remind myself that those are professional people you want to have on your good side.
You’re not the one with the imagination problem! But I think it would be respectful to run a quick ‘In Memoriam’ for those I’ve lost: The subwoofer. A backlog of 37 issues of The New Yorker. A PS4 controller. The bottom row of the wine rack. Our dear, sweet Roomba.
If you are reading this, it means you got the message in my Hydro Flask bottle (Damn, those things really live up the temperature-safe billing! If I am rescued, remind me to leave a positive review on their website.). Rations are good and morale is trending from medium-rare to medium-well at this point. But there’s really no telling how long it will last before I have a mutiny on my hands.
So, I am hereby requesting a formal rescue. By air. The basket dangling from the helicopter and everything. I know I am surrounded by incredibly hot liquid fire, but please include one of those blankets that identifies me as the victim. Not to write my own rider for this mission, but I’d like to be sure my rescuers pay attention to details.
I believe I have a few more days before things get dire, if the slow sinking of my ottoman is any indication.
Just text me when you’re almost here so I can tidy up and make sure I’m wearing pants.