I turned off all my social media notifications. I much prefer screaming into a void to the tune of a symphony for a crater, then catching up on the commentary. I’ve never been a performer, I just want to capture things.
Sometimes it’s my face. Or half of. Or my words. & I remind myself these are your stupid rules. & that no one actively hates you. Stop being insecure.
In lieu of being strange & wonderful in rose colored clouds of vapor, I’ve been writing, but you have to find it. & making art out of to do lists. Publishing copy. Teaching my friends (& strangers) how to build websites. Volunteering. Reading. Taking deep breaths. Sleeping too much. Procrastinating. Forgetting. Making lists. Distracting myself.
On day three of deliver-everything-self-quarentine, I traumatized the pizza delivery driver.
Apparently they are leaving pizzas on wrapped present boxes at your door when you click the no contact delivery option.
I have been waiting for this moment for years. I don’t have to put on pants. My dogs won’t go crazy by the doorbell. I don’t have to talk to anyone.
But I watched through my window, a guy standing in front of my house, exactly 6 feet away from the door. I yelled from inside, “cool! Thank you!”
My dogs smelled him or sensed him& went crazy.
I said again from my Covid free indoors, “thank you!!”
“I need the box”
Shit. This guy doesn’t get the hint. I have to wear pants instead of bathing suit bottoms for this? I ran to my room all the way on the other side of the house & threw on a dirty skirt & finally opened the front door & stepped barefoot onto my front lawn.
“Uhh, you can leave.”
“But I need my box back.”
“What box? Do you wanna watch me eat the thing & give the pizza box to you?”
“No, I need the box.” He points a few times nervously that makes me feel like he wants very badly for this box to return with him. “It’s… it’s under the pizza. We can’t touch it or put the pizza on the ground.”
“What the shit kind of no contact delivery is this?! I had to put on pants. My dogs are freaking out. I have ASTHMA. The world is ending. Put the pizza in a big bag next time & just GO. Tell your boss.”
We stared at each other but he wouldn’t look me in the eye. I waited for him to leave.
“Ccccaaaan I have my box now?”
“Oops. Sorry. Here ya go.” I handed the stupid cardboard box wrapped like a Christmas present to him.
I went inside. I washed my hands. I opened my pizza & then I realized I’m wearing a 50 year old t-shirt that is paper thin & you can totally see my boobs. I look like a punk rock Amelie & sound like an 80 year old toad that chain-smokes.
That poor kid is gonna have a serious Mrs. Robinson complex. Sorry pizza dude. I hope I get a song out of it.