Whatever I imagined I would write today is gone. This has been the most fucked up year in most people's existence. It certainly has been for me. You begin to think there might be a little respite, but there isn't. The weather will change, you think, and that will make a difference. Something. Anything. You think about doing something to lose the Covid Fifteen you have put on these last lockdown months. You can't figure out if this is the right time or the wrong time to quit drinking. You've actually begun to think about how to get on with things. Then the news comes in. Your friends text you. RBG is dead. In normal times, this would be sad. But these are not normal times in any way, and your reaction to the news is both manic and depressive. All your wit is gone. You know you are going into a battle you will surely lose, but go you must.
There will be no winning, even in victory. You realize the beast will maul you before it dies.