What I did on Corona time.

Lost 10 pounds.  Because walking to work and eating salads every day is gonna turn me into a fuckin’ sandwich brigade girl.

Found a new favorite dry vermouth.  As a gift from my dearest, longest-term friend.

Drank my way through every decent rose there is on the market.  Why are two of these items alcohol-related? (why ask why?).

Read every Raymond Chandler.

Begun to read every Ross MacDonald. Realized he is good, but nevertheless a pale and moist simulacrum of Chandler.

Finished Svetlana Alexeivich.  Because no matter how dark mid-century noir fiction gets, nothing is fucking darker than late-20th century oral history of the fall of the Soviet Union.  Nothing.

Begun to compile the playlist for my memorial service (hymn #1, “Because He Lives” arranged for  viola and voice).

Realized that compiling the playlist for my memorial is FUCKING MORBID.

Realized that the only thing more morbid than compiling the playlist for my memorial is cataloguing my grandmother’s coins.

Realized that the only thing more morbid than cataloguing my grandmother’s coins is using this as an excuse for cataloguing my grandfather’s coins.

Cataloguing my grandfather’s coins.

Wondering if Albee ever wrote a play about cataloguing his grandparent’s coins.

Also, trolling social media.  Because the only thing darker than cataloguing my grandfather’s coins — who died in 19-fucking-94 — is trolling social media.

Published by A garrett renter on Welbeck St.

An online diarist, because writing longhand just seems so tiring.

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