4.08.2020

Hunca Munca Funka

I have a mouse, which is so exhausting.

- First of all, I don’t want a new activity. I’m already just as baseline eternally worried about my weight/money/death, and now it’s the end of the world and I’m also doing a drag workshop and attempting to remain employed and I just started dating someone and mademoiselle’s planner is full to the very brim. I don’t want to pencil in rodent management.

- There is no lazy way to do this. Remember how some problems you can half-ass away by “not getting an HIV test” and “pretending your anxiety levels are normal” and “not looking directly AT your credit card balance” and “refusing to purchase a blood pressure monitor” and and AND? (Don’t @ me, I eventually addressed all these except the blood pressure cuff.) This bold little fucker looked at me. In the daytime.

- And I can’t just throw something at it like it’s a man. Because if I hit an entire mouse with a hand weight it will SPLAT, or I’ll miss and break something (and I love my things). And if I throw something light at it “to send a message,” well, at a certain point I’m a 35-year-old (lol) man (LOL) throwing binder clips at a mouse, and that’s not the kind of behavior that passes a wellness check.

- I am aware that mice fuck and that if I put this off I will have MOUSES and then MICE and then A HORDE OF MICE.

- Mice carry disease and can you imagine, can you not just see the headline, if I died of the “wrong” pathogen during a pandemic? “Endearing Buffoon Fucks Up Once More on Way Out.” “Goddammit Chris, Quit Trying to Be Different (I Guess You Did But You Know What I Mean).” “Area Man Follows Different Drummer, Virus.”

- SHOPPING FROM AMAZON IS MORALLY BANKRUPT AND SO IS LEAVING THE HOUSE FOR NO GOOD REASON, I CAN’T JUST LIKE MAKE A MOUSETRAP FROM YARD BAMBOO AND IRE

- Trapping it under a glass is 1) improbable at my level of dexterity 2) just a new Goddamn problem, because then I have “a glass of mouse” and I still have to kill it or let it go outside and pretend it’s a new mouse when it comes back in forty-five minutes later.

- What would I EVEN kill a mouse in a glass with. I have a new weapon for keeping by the bed because the illusion of being able to confront an intruder is important, but it’s a length of pipe I found on the ground two weeks ago and christened “Amy Klobberchar.” This is Too Much for a mouse, plus we’re back to the Gallagher factor.

- I can’t burn the house down because I have a roommate I like and all my beloved things are here.

- I can’t pretend it’s a pet because I recently went on a public tirade about how I refuse to live with an exotic pet ever again, because they smell bad or escape or die or have to be kept moist or have to be fed motherfucking crickets or have to be EXPLAINED and (you knew Mom would show up in this) my mother used to TAKE HER IGUANA ON A LEASH TO THE MALL and can’t I just get a RESCUE BOSTON TERRIER LIKE AN AGING HOMO, I DON’T WANT A WEIRD PET, LIZARD PEOPLE SELL METH. (Don’t @ me.)

- I have EXTREME “unwanted animals in the bedroom” trauma from having bedbugs in 2015, which is the ONLY bad thing that’s ever happened to me that I’m totally unable to joke about.

- Besides I found a mouse turd on the bar cart and I’m not willing to forgive that, it’s from Target but I assembled it myself on the second try.

So I guess I’m just going to Amazon some mousetraps like a Goddamn Nazi and then write you all the story of when I tried to join a gay kickball league. (Spoiler alert: I hated it!) Stay tuned.

4.07.2020

♬ I just can't sleep ♬



In the past week, I have fully convinced myself of the following:

1. I'm finishing a project this week at work (and by "project" I mean I've been asked to haphazardly do three months of work in four weeks, the fourth of which we're now inYOU KNOW, THE WEEK THAT'S SUPPOSED TO BE THE NEW PEARL HARBOR, OR THE NEW 9/11. JUST A REAL LOW-STAKES, DOG-DANGLIN' KIND OF WEEK.), and I think I'm going to get laid off at the end of it. My bowels are not OK. Nobody asked, but I've been completely constipated for weeks, I cry at everything, and all I want to do is yell "fuck" at the top of my lungs into a pillowcase for 45 consecutive minutes in a government clean room.

2. I'm going to get COVID-19 and die. Much like how I convinced myself that I was going to die after 9/11 and started to wear my retainer again so I wouldn't go to hell, I'm now sure that I'm going to get the coronavirus, and my fat fucking stoner lungs are going to hit the snooze button one too many times and crap out on me, and I'm going to die. Like, I believe this. To quote the very serious lawyer in the very whimsical polka dot tie from Tiger King, "There is a god, her name is karma, and she has a sick sense of humor." 



I feel like my COVID death would be karma for how I've kind of put my life on cruise control for the past couple of years. I've wasted time, so now I'm going to lose it. Or not. I could live through this. But I probably won't. I don't know. My dad thinks I'll be OK. He also thought Hilary Clinton would win and doesn't know how to defrost meat. These are the things I think about.

Even though I'm half-joking about most some of this, it's brought me some kind of weird peace to think about my death plan. My mom had to make some very traumatic decisions when my aunt passed a few years ago, and it would suck for anyone to have to do that again. I'm not trying to be weird, I'm not trying to be a downer, I'm just saying it's worth thinking about. Food for thought:

Meghan C. Rowland's Official Death Plan 2020 Corona Get-Down©

I am OK with being put on life support, as long as it's a short-term solution and I'm not Terry Schiavo-ing all over the place. Not like any hospitals have time for that, I realize. Tick, tock.

Ideally, I would like to die in Maryland. When I pass, I would like NYC hero nurse/CRNA Eileen Meyer to pull the plug, if possible, while The Eagles' Greatest Hits plays. I would like to be cremated. I would like an elegant scoop of my ashes to go to my parents, an elegant scoop go to my sister, an elegant scoop go to Chris, an elegant scoop go to Eileen, and an elegant scoop to go to Alex. The rest I would like scattered in the Potomac River at Mount Vernon. (Or 50-feet away from Mount Vernon, per the Department of the Interior, National Parks Service, and www.novacremate.com.) I would like this to be followed by a boozy Bloody Mary brunch.

.........................My death wish sort of seems like a dark place to leave this post, so I leave you instead with an old friend:

 
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