Go Back to Your Bat Cave

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I know the jellyfish in Venice are happy. I know the air is cleaner. I know we’re all doing art in our homes and having sourdough bake-offs on Zoom.

And people are dying, or scared to death of, dying. Those on the front lines and those being cared for by them.

So who am I, to bitch and complain?

The honest truth is, at this moment, I don’t want to practice gratitude.

I want to throw out the CDC “sew-less” face mask that I made out of a dishtowel, that keeps slipping off my ears; and the scratchy not-cotton bandana from the 7-11.

I want to forget I ever thought a face mask should be “stylish.”

I want my niece and nephew’s grandpa to still be alive, and playing golf every day with his friends.

I want all the kids in the world, who are supposed to graduate from high school and college — to walk on stage, receive their diplomas, and toss their mortarboards into the air. 

I want the President of the United States to stop sowing fear and refrain from musing about ridiculous, deadly “medical” solutions.

I want people at borders, in refugee camps, and prisons NOT to get sick, as if they weren’t already dealing with enough.

I want to be able to get on a plane and see my beautiful daughter on her 20th birthday.

I want conspiracies about biomedical warfare and high-speed mobile networks to die.

I want to have a conversation with a friendly stranger without us both worrying about infection.

More than anything, I want you to fly back to your shitty bat cave and leave us all alone.

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