Declan McCreary - Pandemic - We've Run Out of Toilet Paper!

Day 38:2, that’s how many shits I used to take per day. Now I just shit diarrhea constantly throughout the day. There are no known words in existence to describe the bathroom anymore; I can smell it throughout the entire apartment if the door is open. I’ve started to just shit and piss in a bucket and throw it out the window, fuck the police I say. They never did me no good anyhow and I don’t believe in victimless crimes anyways, so fuck order and sanitation, pretty much nothing matters anymore. I’m pretty sure there’s a new ecosystem growing on my balls, and I’m afraid to look at my asshole in the mirror for fear of finding intelligent life; my fear isn’t the life itself, but that they might be Klingon types who start to wage war on me. I don’t hear my neighbors upstairs anymore. A couple of nights ago I heard screaming upstairs, a door slamming, and then silence. I feel terribly lonely, I can’t shake a heavy feeling in my heart but it’s actually become quite difficult to discern various emotions at this point. Everything is mired with a kind of nausea, from the shitty food but also from facts; the fact of the world, the fact of my isolation, and the fact of my profound ignorance of what is currently happening anywhere else but here. My entire scope of reality has been severely limited to a studio apartment, my body, and my disordered mind. It’s a new kind of myopia, not medical, but pandemic. I look at the gallons of water I had collected before all this, I might have miscalculated before, or maybe not, I don’t really know, but it looks like I’m over halfway through the water, and water is more important than food. I try not to drink too much, but I find that I have constant headaches either way.

I’ve finished Anna Karenina, I won’t spoil it, I’ll just say it was a solid read and if you ever find yourself in a global pandemic, check it out. I can’t meditate anymore, you would think that having all this alone time you would get really good at it. However, it’s pretty damn hard when you are indescribably itchy, nauseated, headaches, stomachaches, and constant anal fallout. I amuse myself by singing songs that I don’t know the words too, giving speeches to high-schoolers about the value of the humanities, or yelling more intently at people for their voting behavior pre-collapse. On the bright side I haven’t had to answer any emails in the past month, or worry about work which is completely and thoroughly awesome. I suppose I never have to pay taxes again which is pretty sweet too, and I never get spam anymore-in fact I don’t even have to check my mail box. Overall though, I think these are small prices to pay for being able to shower and go outside. But you got to stay positive and negative. Between optimism and pessimism, both extremes serve to confuse the mind, one must use principles from each depending on the situation. So you might ask, what am I optimistic about, well I answered that, no more emails.

You must be wondering, well how does pessimism help, well that’s a great question. I always thought humans were completely fucking stupid and their underfunding of the CDC and the WHO would bite them in the ass, and when it finally happened I wasn’t even mad. Seneca urged us to imagine all the terrible things that could happen to us each day, to steel ourselves against the worst of it, so when it finally happens your mind is able to take it in stride. Well no matter how much you prepare, you cannot be ready for how itchy your asshole will be when you can’t stop projecting shit from it all day every day. I’ve also run out of moisturizing lotion, The Walking Dead never dealt with the real issues. I have half a year left of Claritin, but my eye drops are donzo’. Now in addition to all my other joys, itchy, runny, red eyes are a new constant.

Day 45: My grandma always told me that one of the defining traits of people is that they always adapt. I’m not sure I’m adapting well to be honest, I’m just eating and drinking more and more. Going outside isn’t an option unless it’s absolutely necessary, I hear the occasional murder screams-no thanks. I spend hours just sitting on my couch fidgeting looking up at the ceiling. I’ve chewed all my gum, trident orange flavored one, though I didn’t let it go to waste. I stick them all on my wall as a reminder of all the great things capitalism brought us in the days gone by. What could they sell us now?

It’s not the smell of my body or the loss of hope and decimation of any dreams I had for my life, but the incredible soul crushing loneliness that’s recently become my new raison d’être. In the absence of any pleasures and devoid of meaning, a little bit of sadness swirled with the desire for human touch becomes the thing that lifts you up—reminds you what you’re about. My family, my brother, my girlfriend, my friends, what’s become of them? I was so consumed with my own survival that it’s only just occurred to me. I walk over to my drawer in the hallway between the kitchen and living room. Probably mahogany but I never learned the difference. Opening the top drawer I take out a map and bring it to my writing table, shitty one from Ikea, and spread it out. I’m in LA, and Cleveland is pretty far. I’m completely useless at navigating without a GPS, technology ruined us all. I study the map, I-80, I-40, or I-70 seem to be my options, but I don’t have a car, though I have a feeling I’ll find one outside. I take out a sheet of paper and jot down things to bring, knife, backpack with the remaining food and water, spare clothing, and some other weapon. I’ve got a broken Swiffer stick which I duck-taped to a broken broom handle to extend its life, I guess that’ll have to do as my make-shift staff. May as well do this Mad Max style, you know, when in Rome. Better look the part, I make four pony tails with my shoulder length hair and decide to keep the beard, I once read some study that women find men with beards more aggressive; maybe it applies to men too. Anything to give me an edge, I’d rather not get skull-fucked because I cut my beard, you never know these days. I’ve got what looks like 13 days left of supplies, so may as well leave in 9, I can carry about 4 days’ worth of food and water in my backpack.

You’d be surprised the difference a plan can make. That’s the strength of people-imagination-we feel accomplished as long as we write things down; you can see it right here on this sheet of paper. It’s not ridiculous to ponder that maybe, just maybe that’s why humans are terribly awful at dealing with things when they don’t go according to plan.

Day 54:Viral pandemic check, crazy hair check, smell like shit check, knife check, backpack with supplies check, shoes tied tightly check, broken Swiffer/broom handle duck-taped together check, ready to fuck shit up, we’ll see. I open my door cautiously and the smell from before is gone. It’s been replaced with something truly atrocious, I stagger back inside from the scent slamming the door. It smells like a fat man who threw up on his own dick after running a 5k. I try again but this time run out my door, fly down the stairs, and jump over what in hindsight was a bloated corpse of the dude who must have ran the 5k. The feeling of the outside air and the sun on my skin is sexual, relaxation and hope vibrates down from the crown of my head to my toes—this feels good. I look up at slowly at the sky and note that the clouds are still there-trash is everywhere. First step, find a car with keys in it because let’s be frank Frank, I haven’t a fucking clue how to hot wire a car.

I step out from the buildings awning and look down the street. It hasn’t even been that long but already grass has started to take back what was once its own realm. A few cars are parked at odd angles. Some in the middle of the street, broken glass scattered here and there, I look up at the building across the street which has sheets streaming down from the windows, trash all along the side of the building.