So yeah, I have covid-19. I was feeling pretty terrible since like, Friday (today is Tuesday). I did about five RAT tests, and it only showed up today.
So if you know me (if you don't, what are you doing here?) you will most likely be aware that I have some "contamination issues", as I call it. Which quite often involves lots of anxiety around getting covid. I have taken so many precautions -- like I couldn't even take off my mask to eat at school for half of the term because I was afraid to get covid. And I started being a bit more normal -- like, eating fucking lunch. And, oh! Look at that! Covid! I'm honestly pretty mad at myself. I don't know where I got it from, but I do know that I have probably given it to my whole family because it wasn't showing up on the stupid RAT tests. Oh, but don't worry, my mum said she'd be happy when she got covid! She said that, to her daughter whose "contamination issues" legally qualify as a disability because of how debilitating they are. Oh but I think my dad owes me $30 now.
Ok, so I will stop trauma dumping for a while now. I will actually talk about the poem now.
I was freaking out, right, so I was like, "hey, this is a poetry writing opportunity!" So I kept working on this poem that I had started writing like a month ago. While sobbing and lip-synching to Age of Anxiety I, which I was blasting at a probably-damaging-to-my-ears volume. It was very relevant to the situation though, and I felt like a main character out of a movie. Is that weird? I dunno. I like my music.
I believe that there are two "parts" to this poem. There's the poetic, well-planned part, which I actually half-edited because I wrote it about a month ago. Then, there's the part I wrote tonight, while crying and having a half-anxiety attack (?). So please forgive me because I know it is not very well written, it's cliché, and sounds very angry. That's because I was angry. I think. I don't get angry very often, I promise. But I think I'm just gonna post it and then never read it again.
Also, I apologise for the weirdo title; I was trying to be clever. Also, I couldn't think of anything else.
I think I'm in a surreal state of shock. Haha. I was expecting that when I got covid for real I would have a 20-hour-long anxiety attack like I did when I was playing clarinet in the same room as someone who had covid. But now I'm just blogging and damaging my ears with loud music, like teenagers are supposed to.
I really want to read. But I can't because I don't have the next book in my series. Actually, I might even reread Turtles All the Way Down. This seems like an appropriate situation.
Ok. So, summary: the poem I'm about to post is not very well-written, and I apologise for that.
Ok. Gonna post the poem now. I'm not even gonna read over it because it is probably embarrassingly bad. And there was so much more I wanted to write, but I thought that it would end up being too long.
Ok. Gonna go get my eardrums destroyed by 2:11 in My Body Is A Cage. Yep. There it is.
Somehow, I feel like I'm not going to get the rest that my body probably needs to recover from covid. Oh well. The good thing about having a chronic illness is that you don't have to do anything to make it go away! It just doesn't. Unlike covid, which eventually goes away! Maybe my mum was onto something when she said to just look on the bright side and stop worrying! That is a genius tactic. Why didn't I just think of that?
My goal is to stay up all night and reread all of Turtles All the Way Down. I will update you imaginary blog readers on whether I achieve that or not.
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