pulse oximeter
I started "blogging" when I was in high school, mostly as a way to memorialize the mundane realities of middle class suburbia in a town silently still reeling from Hurricane Katrina. I read somewhere that excellence is nothing more than a huge huge conglomeration of consistent mundanity or something--consistent practice, no matter how unimpressive or uninteresting
and so I wrote and I wrote and drew things and uploaded pictures of my 70-something pound self...after I deleted my Facebook account in 2017, my blog was truly the only archive I had of a nearly 10 year span of my life
And then Google deleted it, and now it's gone...the unintelligible binary code that encompassed every bad day at school, every bizarre encounter I had with the eccentric Parisan math professor who claimed the Gibson hall gardens as his "office" at Tulane University, every heart-wrenching and also cringeworthy poem I wrote when my long-distance relationship blew up in my face
And so now I start over, arguably at a much more interesting time of life. I don't know how to chronicle the days of quarantine, mostly because they are all so different though they are largely the same
We, as "non-essential" employees, are largely sheltered. We are coddled in place, insulated from the monstrosity that is COVID-19--a devastating disease that ravages patients mostly because it's so sneaky and insidious, much like the most timeless villains of history
The silent pneumonia is the most scary thing to me, and I have half a mind to order a pulse oximeter on Amazon right now, but then I worry about my parents--perhaps I should order them one too? I wish I knew that everything was going to be okay, that my loved ones and I were going to be fine and for the most part I feel coddled enough to think so. I always used to yearn to live in a more exciting city like NYC, a place teeming with life and public transport
but now my heart aches for the citizens in this cities; the strangest enemies are always invisible
And so I think sometimes, of every memory that's been washed away in the deep net of the intertubes, of every rambling that I can no longer read
and then I remember, that I have something much more reliable than any stupid blogspot domain
the people who were there with me, through every bad day, every bizarre encounter with the parisan math professor, every horrid breakup text I sent, and every modest birthday i've had
they've always been there
and so I wrote and I wrote and drew things and uploaded pictures of my 70-something pound self...after I deleted my Facebook account in 2017, my blog was truly the only archive I had of a nearly 10 year span of my life
And then Google deleted it, and now it's gone...the unintelligible binary code that encompassed every bad day at school, every bizarre encounter I had with the eccentric Parisan math professor who claimed the Gibson hall gardens as his "office" at Tulane University, every heart-wrenching and also cringeworthy poem I wrote when my long-distance relationship blew up in my face
And so now I start over, arguably at a much more interesting time of life. I don't know how to chronicle the days of quarantine, mostly because they are all so different though they are largely the same
We, as "non-essential" employees, are largely sheltered. We are coddled in place, insulated from the monstrosity that is COVID-19--a devastating disease that ravages patients mostly because it's so sneaky and insidious, much like the most timeless villains of history
The silent pneumonia is the most scary thing to me, and I have half a mind to order a pulse oximeter on Amazon right now, but then I worry about my parents--perhaps I should order them one too? I wish I knew that everything was going to be okay, that my loved ones and I were going to be fine and for the most part I feel coddled enough to think so. I always used to yearn to live in a more exciting city like NYC, a place teeming with life and public transport
but now my heart aches for the citizens in this cities; the strangest enemies are always invisible
And so I think sometimes, of every memory that's been washed away in the deep net of the intertubes, of every rambling that I can no longer read
and then I remember, that I have something much more reliable than any stupid blogspot domain
the people who were there with me, through every bad day, every bizarre encounter with the parisan math professor, every horrid breakup text I sent, and every modest birthday i've had
they've always been there
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