The adaptations began during my third week of quarantine. If I can’t be productive, I have three choices: Do nothing, do destructive things or do neutral things. Being an inessential worker in every sense of the word, there has been no obvious way for me to channel my bad feelings into civically productive activities. I daydream about which elected officials most deserve to get Covid. The physical manifestations of my own dread have included insomnia, a bumper crop of gray hairs and an absence of self-control around any form of alcohol or drug.
Like characters in an Edgar Allan Poe story, every person I know is suddenly confined to a small space and forced to meditate on existence, death and his or her own satanic impulses. I’ve made out beautifully, and I feel terribly unhappy: a pair of conditions that are tough to either reconcile or deny.
I was able to get out of the city I don’t have the virus I’ve lost some work, but not all of it and just under 17 percent of my immediate family members have fallen seriously ill. Insanity Can Keep You Sane If you can’t live normally, why not find little harebrained ways to warp reality? By Molly Young
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