The Essential Service of Starvation

I reckon there’s a special brand of idiocy reserved just for me. A truly historic, monumental level of biological desperation.

The entire world is locked inside their houses, terrified of a microscopic bug. The police are beating people with sticks just for looking out their front doors. And what did I do? I signed up to be a Swiggy delivery boy.

Now, I didn’t do it for the money. I did it because riding around with a neon orange bag strapped to my back is suddenly classified as an “essential service,” which means I get a magic hall pass to bypass the apocalypse. I transformed myself into a glorified peasant of the gig economy for one singular, feverish reason: so I could roam the empty streets and go see her.

And Lord almighty. I went and met her.

I only saw her for a few agonizing minutes, standing there in the suffocating quiet of the lockdown, but OMG. She is so beautiful .

Sitting in that house for weeks, she hasn’t withered away; she has bloomed into something entirely, terrifyingly spectacular. She has become super thick. So unbelievably juicy and nice. It hit me like a physical fever, a blinding rush of blood to the head. When those few minutes were up and she turned to walk away… I am telling you, my brain completely short-circuited. She was looking so incredibly, devastatingly yummy.

I am sitting here now, sweating in this empty apartment, practically vibrating out of my own skin. The silence is deafening. Every single rational thought I have ever possessed has been entirely hijacked by this sheer, animal hunger.

When is this godforsaken lockdown going to end? When can I finally eat her?