The Apocalypse and the Empty Pantry

What in God’s name is this “Corona Covid-19” business?

Suddenly, there is this thing called a lockdown everywhere. The government just slammed the giant, invisible doors of the universe shut, and everybody is supposed to sit quietly in their designated cubicles until the plague decides to pack up and leave.

I haven’t seen her in a week. She is locked away in her home, presumably safe, while I am stuck here rotting in mine.

I reckon I could have planned better, but foresight was never exactly my strong suit. Last week, I had absolutely no food. None. Not a single grain of rice. Just the humming refrigerator and the profound, cosmic absurdity of starving to death inside a modern apartment complex because the world outside suddenly became radioactive. Horrible shit. Truly. It’s a remarkable thing to realize how terribly fragile your existence is when the local grocery store shuts down. You’re just a biological puppet waiting for the strings to be cut.

Bored as fuck. The quiet in this apartment isn’t just silence; it is a heavy, decaying weight pressing down on the walls.

So what does a man do when the apocalypse arrives and he’s entirely cut off from the sole, toxic human connection he has built his life around? Does he read? Does he contemplate the grand, terrifying mechanism of a dying society?

No. I am doing nothing but gooning .

Just endless, mind-numbing hours staring at glowing pixels while society hypothetically collapses outside my window. The world is ending, the shelves are empty, and I am just sitting here in the dark, successfully distracting my own rotting brain from the void.