Today is Friday. You’ll be alive for the rest of your life while reading this article. So pay attention: the Quibbits are still in quarantine. We’re self-isolating and, as usual, keeping our distance from others. As everyone around the world is experiencing at the moment, misery loves company, and family members are misery incarnate. (Kidding). Typing this at my Second Desk in the breakfast room, I can hear Rooster upstairs banging away on his Studebaker translating the new Michel Houellebecq book (Serotonin, which I’m pretty sure already came out in English… didn’t Nicky review it?) At night, he’s taken up experimental painting. It’s very physical, so he gets some exercise that way. I’ve started meditating along with new life idol Marianne Williamson, thinking of everyone in the world and praying for love.
I want a blanket of love to fall over the contiguous United States and remain there for the rest of my life. I want everyone to see red and pink and gooey love, nothing inappropriate or unjust or unasked for. No one coughing or dying in the streets, limping in hospital hallways and crying through glass, only able to look at dying, infectious relatives, but not allowed to touch. This is a world of dogs and rats. One is noble, the other is disgusting—but they’re the same. They both walk the Earth. They both wag their tails ostentatiously, always looking for attention or a fight. I don’t bother with them; they’re true plague carriers. Unfortunately, when they were wreaking havoc all over Eurasia in the 14th century, documentation wasn’t as strong or reliable as it is today. Who are you more likely to believe: a lithograph by John St. Johns XVI, or a Harvard epidemiologist’s report? Maybe the answer will surprise me…
Social distancing means staying at home. So I’ve had plenty of time to practice karate and breakdancing while Bennington rakes in major coin from his OnlyFans (human beings are so fucking disgusting it’s incredible). Rooster’s still writing, writing, writing, plugging away at a new work that will surely disappear into the ether like the rest of his output. (Always a Stone remains his White Whale, and everything he’s written since has been for money, not for pleasure. He certainly doesn’t do any of this for fun. I’ve tried to get him to stop revealing so much about our personal lives, but it does keep the lights on). He’s probably writing about the novel coronavirus, Bennington is showing hole for $50 a pop, and I’m sitting down here in my work corner trying not to lose my mind.
I went for a walk today. It’s very nice outside, totally at odds with the current situation. Not to be an ecofascist, but there’s a part of me that wishes Mother Earth will finally take up her call and wipe the world clean of these human beings. Polly the Peacock was shut up in her cage, visibly vibrating with anxiety, so I didn’t bother saying hi. The flying birds were singing and begging to fuck, but I wasn’t having any of it. The ground beneath my claws, this I can feel. And this I know is real. As pieces of my life flash before my eyes every day, I remind myself wherever I’m standing—I’m here, I’ll keep my head down, and keep moving until I can’t move any more. Namaste, cunts.
—Follow Monica Quibbits on Twitter: @MonicaQuibbits