This is an ever-growing list of all the times this week when I’ve literally wanted to die. It’s only Tuesday, so you might as well start writing my eulogy because by Friday I’ll be gone.

Sunday, May 3


It’s Sunday night and I’m inebriated. Ok, that’s an understatement. I’m shit faced. I don’t think there are many rules in quarantine, yet my lack of sobriety leads to intense Sunday Scaries. I could die.

Monday, May 4


Alarm clock. Monday morning. Not sure if I fell asleep or passed out, but if past is any indication, it’s the latter. I could die.


Coffee maker is broken. Unsurprising since I’ve had it since college, and it came from my prehistoric grandmother’s basement. Anyway, I need coffee and I don’t have it. I could die.


Farfetch box of treasure delivered via USPS. I waved as my mailman walked out of my building. He didn’t see me, but the dude from 12C did. I pretended I didn’t see him seeing me. Fun game, but I could die.


I’ve almost made it through Monday with no other death prayers. Phew. I guess I’m alive.

Tuesday, May 5


Time to get dressed. I changed from yesterday’s sweatpants into today’s which are special because they are new and have come from my USPS box of treasure. Today, I am alive.


Cramps during a conference call with my mansplaining boss during which I resisted the urge to ask him if he could mansplain cramps to me, too. Zoom continues to become more and more painful, this time, literally. I could die.


Conference call ends, soI rush to the bathroom to find that my new white sweatpants have gotten their first blood bath. 3 days early. I could die.


I strip down and call my fiancé to bring me a towel. “Towels are dirty, remember?” Ok, new sweatpants? “Dirty. Where are your new ones?” Death and dying.


Fear sets in. All comforts are soiled, and I can’t go to the laundromat. Safety-in-place in full effect. I should just die.


I’ve quickly waddled to my closet. I’m some sort of mix between a penguin and Usain Bolt. This in-and-of-itself is a feat for which I should be proud, but I am full of shame and fearful of wearing real clothes. I could die.


I’ve wiggled into a dress I’d normally reserve for rooftop season, but no rules in quarantine, remember? Does this make me look fat? No, I think it’s ok. Huh … Maybe I won’t die today.


Back at my kitchen-desk and three minutes late for my next Zoom call. When I sit down, I hear a rip. I might not look fat in the dress, but I certainly am too fat for it. I could die.


Back to the closet for outfit #3. At this point, all things go. What little rules once existed are now completely forgotten. I’ve chosen a heavenly, gilded muumuu worthy of Pope Francis. I don’t know why I own this frock, but I might not die in it.


I head to the kitchen and pour myself a nice big coffee mug full of bottom shelf red wine. No one will know the difference. This is great. I’m definitely not gonna die.


I saddle up for my final conference call of the day. I flip on the camera and take a swig just as my co-worker says, “Oh, why’d you change outfits?”

I’m taken aback by his attention to detail, so I choke on my alcoholic elixir, spewing it across my screen and down the front of my dress.

“Is that…wine?” My fiancé calls from his makeshift desk in the living room.


It’s 5 o’clock in Hell, but it’s time to die on earth. Cheers.

How did you feel Thursday at noon ? And Monday at 7pm? What day are we today ? Share below…