I’m trying to plug along as best I can and distance from as much stupid as possible. It’s as crowded here as it usually is in the summer, but hours adjusted due to the virus mean I can’t grocery shop at 7 AM the way I would normally to avoid crowds. Some stores are being great about protocols, and their customers are following them, so that’s where I shop.

Stores that don’t — don’t get my business. And probably won’t in the future, either.

Asses.

My daughter is working full time from home (amen that she can). Her husband is three days from home, two days at work. They have a two-year-old son who is constantly exploring anything and everything. They live in a tiny house. The lot of them are nearly batshit crazy because they’re also in a a row-home-style area; their town has 559 total cases, 34 deaths. They have a nice yard, but the park across the street — the one the baby wants to run to all the time — is closed. And he RUNS, so you’d better enjoy running, too.

I’m just fed up with everything right now. The pandemic-related depression has rendered my poetry blah. I’m trying to push through. I’m not getting very far.

And thank you to the putz on LinkedIn who thinks now is a great time to reach out to writers everywhere offering them a freebie (which one writer told me never materialized) if we’d only connect with him. It’s all to pump up his coaching business, but it’s reading very sleazy right now.