Now that it’s been nearly a year, the fatigue associated with COVID-19 restrictions has begun to flood every waking minute. I’m in California, and I haven’t met a single new person in several months. I haven’t been to a concert or a stand-up show, an NFL game or even a college party. It’s plain depressing.
This isn’t to say, though, that I’m about to take my mask off and run wild to Miami. I’m just tired. I suppose the only thing to do is to keep my head down and keep working; to keep improving and bettering myself so that when the storm is passed I can feel proud and ready to take on the world.
Or maybe I could dream of the future: of going to Japan, of meeting people at bars, of playing my music on the street. Of picking up a basketball and shooting around with strangers.
But in the words of Steve Miller: “Time keeps on slipping, slipping, slipping into the future.” I can’t help but feel my youth dissipate as I dissolve into my couch.
I’ll gladly take a punch in the arm from that vaccine to bring the world back to life.