Hey, it’s me. Rhoda. No, I don’t care that this is a terrible way to start a column. And I’m pretty sure you don’t either. Since my last article, a lot has happened. We got a vaccine. In fact, we got a bunch of them. And we started vaccinating people. And then we started vaccinating so many of them that it was like one or two million a day. It’s totally turned my mood around except that it totally hasn’t. Here’s why:
First, my dick hurts. And I don’t even have a dick. That’s got to be bad, right? Every day it’s like I have a different ailment even though I’ve lived the past year like someone who’s hiding from the nazis and kind of hoping they just fucking find me and I’ll be like, “Hey, what the fuck took you so long?” I know that doesn’t even make sense and that my sentences are written like I gave up caring about anything I write or do or think and that’s accurate. So take a trophy from my trophy case and give yourself an award for figuring that out. Oh, and people who have given up on life often give away things of great value to them, like their trophies.
When the vaccines started rolling out, I immediately signed up for an appointment that didn’t exist because you couldn’t get one unless you were like eighty-five, which is an age there’s no way I’ll live to, even if we didn’t have a future of new diseases coming every month until we all just quit trying and let the animals take over again like in those shows I watch about what Earth will look like when the animals take over again. (But not smart animals, like monkeys or whatever. The really dumb ones and insects that have no chance of evolving into anything but super predators with tiny brains but are super good at hunting the last humans who have banded together in a tunnel somewhere and think they’ll come outside once things settle down and are instantly zapped by eight-foot bugs who cocoon them and hang them in their food storage lairs.)
Sorry. I guess that’s pretty negative. Maybe the monkeys will survive instead and just rip our faces off.
Anyway, now vaccines are becoming available to everyone, so I may be able to get one. If I can get to a clinic before a mutation finds its way into the nasal cavity of the kid who’s chin-strapping his mask while he bags my groceries and breathes in my direction. I read an article about how the new variants can travel through masks and walls and make you think you have a dick even if you don’t. Fuck. It got me.
I also watched a news thing where this woman stayed inside for a whole year and then got vaccinated, but then on the day before it would give her any protection her neighbor came back from Spring Break and popped up behind her and said, “Hey, Margaret! Thanks for watching my dog while I was gone. He has Covid but I’m pretty sure he got it from me.” Then she died.
Some recent reports made me feel better. One says that new strains of the virus might kill us faster. Another article said that Netflix just announced a shitload of new movies and shows. If I die sooner, I won’t have to worry about watching them and then saying, “Why the fuck did all those articles say to watch these? They fucking suck. Why did I ever believe I should watch this ‘underrated sci-fi thriller that’s dominating Netflix’ before it leaves next week?” If I’m dead from Coronavirus, all that goes away.
By the way, if you’re reading this, I’m already dead. I asked that the Intergalactic Business Report publish this upon my passing. It’s freaky, right? Reading a dead person’s thoughts after they’re dead? I guess I’m finally at peace, if at peace is existing in a void of time and space and having no memory of anything and just floating there endlessly as a non-sentient thread of nothingness. When you get here and join me, I’ll be like, “……..” because I can’t speak or think or comprehend anything.
Anyway, they just told me that unless I’m dead today, they need me to write another article for this week. So, I just said publish this. Whatever. Like it matters if I’m alive or dead. I’m going to end with some good news. Snakes figured out a way to climb up poles. That’s good for their species, right? We can’t figure out Covid, but at least those slithery motherfuckers figured out how to go after telephone pole workers and strippers. I’m done writing now. Goodbye.
Rhoda Bloom is just a person who wrote this. She does not work for the Intergalactic Business Report. But you can leave a message for her at firstname.lastname@example.org.
Like yoghurt, we keep it cultured actively.