It’s official, then. I have tested positive for the novel coronavirus. Now what?
Absolutely nothing, except treat the symptoms. I get to drink tea, eat chicken soup, and sleep in even later than I’ve been sleeping in. And it certainly changes … absolutely nothing. Except that I am quarantining myself, as does everybody else in the house.
I miss taking walks. I miss waking up without a migraine. Blah, blah, blah. I am so sick and tired of complaining. There is just so much space in my head, and I don’t want to give any more away to stupid viruses. I want to enjoy each moment, breathe deep in acceptance and blah, blah, blah. Neh.
Neh. In truth I’d rather read. Or write (I’m working on a little limerick right now, but I’m not ready to share it yet). Or I can watch TV — watch a lot of TV.
And let’s not forget National Novel Writing Month. I am ridiculously behind, but it doesn’t matter. Even if I write 500 words, that’s 500 more words than not written. It’s about not giving up, even if I fail. It’s better to go for it and not reach the goal than decide I am not going for it at all. Or, in other words, blah, blah, blah.