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My Dearest Jillian,
I hope this email finds you well. Normally I would just text or send an IG DM, but my mom has insisted that I use my newfound time at home in a productive manner. When I asked her what in tarnation she meant by that, she elaborated,
“I don’t know. Write a letter or something.”
She most certainly meant an email, because no one writes letters anymore, and so I find myself sitting here in front of the home computer a-huntin’ and a-peckin’ for the letters that will form the words that will properly convey the depths of my despair.
This week was supposed to be Spring Break, but I have now lost all hope that it will be anything other than dry as fuck. After Spirit Airlines sent word that our flight to Cancun had been canceled, things seemed bleak. Bryce, ever the quick thinker, suggested we secure lodgings in Daytona Beach via Airbnb and roadtrip down there. The university had already announced that classes would be held remotely, so we had ample time for this new excursion of frivolity. Alas, that plan was also dashed when mom said that all boarding houses, restaurants, and saloons would be shuttered, and even if they weren’t, there was no way she was letting me drive to Florida with the ways things are now.
And I have just received word that our local liquor stores had been denied the ability to offer curbside service and instead will be closed indefinitely. I have heard whispers of a field party. Though it sounds lame and very high school, we may have no better prospects of social activities. I pray that it happens and we shall be together there.
Yours,
Dion
Dion my comrade,
How splendid to receive your message! The days, they run so long. My internship hath been halted since the ides of March. Alas, I hadn’t more than fudgeled most of my time there, but at least it was something to occupy the season between Christmas break and Senior Week, which of course, is canceled. I do hope the Class of ‘21 permits we crush cups with them next year!
BTW, how is Bryce? That ol’ snollygoster. Please do bump his elbow for me the next time you see him.
Doth thou have my grain alcohol tincture recipe? I shall conjure it forth and send it with my next correspondence. Wicked woofits, but nevertheless, something to wet your whistle in these practically prohibitionist times.
What’s next? Retrograding to a world without plumbing?
What do I look like, a Carthaginian? I’d rather perish than use a chamber pot. Though I suppose it might solve the toilet paper shortage problem. Gardyloo! LOL
I have been keeping up a fitness regimen so I am not fully smitten by feelings of famelicose; I hath been devouring cream crackers and jammy dodgers and pork scratchings as though I were the Beast of Bodmin Moor. And thou? How art thine health? Normally I consider myself sharp of mind and spry of body, but this climate of fear alongside spring allergies hath me wondering if I am ill, well, or simply suffering from hum durgeon. I can’t seem to get more than thirty winks at night (anxiety hath been a bitch of expurgefactor. That, and Animal Crossing) and so the days I am languid. By two I’ve usually succumbed to my crippling clinomania. Would you look at that? It’s a quarter of. Bedward I retire!
Fondly,
Jillian
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