Irony.

Well, I’m about 94% sure I’ve gotten COVID.

I’ve been having a wicked cough and then I lost my sense of smell and taste (which is fucking sucky, let me tell you) and a few days ago I was exhausted as hell. It’s only till tonight that my sense of smell seemed to rally and my taste perked up a little bit, but it just goes to show how fucking ironic life is. I get right at the beginning of a new year. I thought I got it last Mardi Gras but I never lost my sense of smell or taste and I damn sure don’t recall being so tired.

So all I’ve been doing is lying on the couch with Jack binging Bridgerton (which made me cry my eyes out, fucking hormones) and trying to avoid eating food that I can’t afford to waste by not tasting. The show made me want to write but I can’t concentrate on a damn thing so I guess I’ll go lie down and do the bed thing that always makes me feel better.

So Bridgerton: Bunch of Brits who are wayyyyy too involved in the prospect of getting married but the lead guy is super hot and the lead girl kinda looks like Kiera Knightly and they end up going on this sexcapade and it was...pretty hot. Hence why I wanted to write, because I haven't done it in ages. And maybe it's my hormones, but...

Does passion (god, what a concept) ever really last? I’m starting to think it’s an instrument of torture. How can something that paralyzing stay the course? How can you believe in it, like people believe in religion? Passion must have some sort of numbing agent inside of it that makes one think that it will never dissolve. Passion, in my opinion, is like a bomb falling in slow motion.

It’ll hit at some point. The fallout will bring about some destruction, to be sure, but then again there all kinds of bombs.

Big ones, like Nagasaki.

And then small ones, like pipe bombs.

But life, bomb size notwithstanding, always marches on, and life can be wearing like water on a rock.

So how can one look passion in the face and believe in it forever?