One Long Day

An email from Workday:

You currently have active ancillary benefits that are missing a beneficiary. A beneficiary is the person(s) or entity(ies) that will receive this benefit in the event of your passing or dismemberment.

Consider work. Consider DAY. Consider the meaning of (s) and (ies) in such close proximity. Sighs.

Yesterday, the sun streaming in through my window made it look like my webcam light was coming on and I felt a moment of sheer terror followed by “Eh, this might as well happen too.” 

Yesterday, I channeled most of my rage into the ‘exclusive’ orange Telfar bag I wanted being sold out on Ssense. Channel Orange. I wanted to flip off my computer screen. Yesterday, I flipped off Ben in the living room while slowly closing the door to our bedroom and then had to open the door again to make sure he knew it was a joke.

I think that we should put a do-not-resuscitate sign on Capitalism in the event of its passing or dismemberment. In the event of NOW. Perhaps in the form of a post-it.

Note to self: cover webcam with post-it. 

You-know-who was on a work call and one of his coworkers had an annoying laugh (the kind you do when you want your boss to think you like his jokes) and we both looked at each other and started fake laughing and didn’t stop for a really long time. Halfway through I was like “oh shit, is he on mute?” but I kept going because fuck it. Yesterday, my coworker used the phrase “a dog’s dinner” which is the exact phrase I thought when I dumped out a can of extra chunky Campbell’s beef stew into the saucepan.

Consider that Ssense is actually pronounced ESSENCE. No offense but…. No?

All the Zoomers are pressing F on the lofi hip hop radio chat. I watch a stream of F’s go by followed by “Canada closed the borders?” I spent most of last year looking forward to staying in a hotel at an airport. Lol!

Yesterday, I saw a picture of the hospital boat they are sending to New York and thought that boat is actually pretty cute. I texted Ben a photo of the boat and said “Buddy, they won’t even let me fuck it,” which– if you don’t know– is a reference to a dril tweet about the Betsy Ross flag. He texted me back “lmao” but I could hear through the door that we wasn’t lmao. He wasn’t lmao at all.

Can I be earnest for a second: We are not rising to the occasion poorly if we aren’t doing it heroically. We are rising to the occasion by surviving.

There is no reason, no authority to appeal to. You can’t speak to the virus’s manager. Someone on Twitter suggests praying. Hymns are easier for me to conjure. Before we got engaged, Ben and I talked about religion. I didn’t want him to be alarmed if I sang hymns to our future children.

(Everything you sing to a baby is a hymn, even if it doesn’t mention god.)

Right now, everything we sing to ourselves is a battle hymn.

Big sun coming strong through the motel blinds 
Wake up to your girl for now, let's call her Cleopatra 

The hymn line that keeps coming to me is “everlasting arms of love.” Everlasting. Like a stream of F’s that never ends. Ben says, “I feel like this has just been one long day.”

To quote the actually peerless dril: ha ha ha.