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Lockdown Living (P.2)

I’ve been fantasising about my life post-corona virus. The type of person I’ll be, how I’ll look, how I’ll think and what I’ll say, so full of hope and promise. I’ll be well read, interesting, calm and collected in a sort of Meryl Streep – Devil Wears Prada kind of way. I’ll have ambition and direction and of course, above else, I’ll have turned into some sort of French waif, turning my nose up at carbohydrates, drinking only rosé and snacking on fantastically liberal ideas, crushing those who don’t agree with me with a single look and wearing Birkenstocks.


Sadly, though, to achieve this renaissance of self I would have to apply myself in some other way than taking 4 showers/baths a day (to feel any remnant of control over my life) or making copious amounts of pea and ham soup because its quick and easy and all I know how to cook.


I fear that in actuality my future holds more of the same. Another thankless, menial job. A few more sub-standard love affairs and continuing to resentfully google up-and coming singer-songwriters and scowl at them through my phone at three in the morning, drinking whisky until I fall into a state of unconsciousness. Finally, I'll be found, still living in my mother’s house, surrounded by empty crisp packets, wrapped up in a cocoon of my own labia, slowly dying and mumbling something about what I could have been...

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