A new day dawns in this, our age of plague – of omicron or unicron or galvatron or whatever but I've decided that I'm going to call every variant from here on out OhForFucksSake because at this point, while I'm holding firm – clinging, perhaps – to my historical perspective that the bubonic plague lasted for 50 years and this has lasted for only two, I'm getting a sinking feeling that this is less a historical perspective than a world-record goalpost in a game of viral dick-swinging played out across centuries.

Started reading my latest issue of Lapham's Quarterly (on Scandal) in bed last night because I needed a break from Chekhov but it happened that the piece I read in Lapham's was by Chekhov because it would seem that even when I need a break from Chekhov, I can still enjoy Chekhov.

Frosty kickball time with Kirby before more reading (probably wrapping up Wharton’s GHOSTS) and the cooking of baked ravioli or the other way round, my mea culpa for declaring familal – mine and the in- – gathering bankruptcy in the short term to prevent long-term sanity, marriage, and/or life erosion.

The day awaits.