From Jarvis MacKinnon III:
A few of our recent tweets about life in quarantine:
Day 30: I cleaned my vacuum cleaner. NOTE: I did not say, "I cleaned WITH my vacuum cleaner." I said, "I cleaned my vacuum cleaner."
Day 32: I cleaned the inner tub of our washing machine.
Day 35: I started to alphabetize all of the items in my fridge, but I wasn't sure if the Mt. Olive Bread & Butter Pickles should go under M, B, or P -- so I stopped. I ate a family size bag of double-stuf Oreos instead.
Day 37: @IvankaTrump would be proud of me. I just finished reading the Sumerian mythological account of "Lugalbanda in the Mountain Cave," and I've learned to play the Hornucopian dronepipe. Now I'm thinking of learning to play Mayan temple trumpets.
Day 40: I'm beyond the "what day is it?" phase. I'm in the "what meal is this?" phase.
Day 43: You remember that quip from Lady Grantham, the Dowager Countess of Downton Abbey, "What is a weekend?" Yeah. That.
Day 44: Big day today. We're going to inventory our condiments before some online shopping.
Day 49: It was a gray morning, the sort of gray you’d see in the roots of a dame who’d finally given up the battle to go with color for a more youthful look & just go gray, but you wouldn’t notice the gray because everything in this day was gray like the color of a television tuned to an off air channel. It was 8:26 a.m. & the morning held the promise that nothing would happen. All day. Nothing would happen at all. It was the first of May, but at best, felt like Maybe.
Day 51: Another day of binge watching -- the refrigerator.
Day 52: I'm experiencing symptoms of pain, numbness and tingling in my backside. I believe I'm suffering from couchal tater syndrome.
We'll post a few more on @The_Dickinson as life in quarantine continues.
For now, we have changed the names of the days of the week since no one can remember what day it is any way (the days are now Someday, Mundayne, Chooseday, Whatsday, There'saday, Fraudday, and Sadderday), we have posted Emmett Lee Dickinson's poem "My Ass so has so little to do" below on the left. Dickinson's poem inspired third cousin Emily to pen her poem "The Grass has so little to do," below on the right, and -- as an added bonus -- we've included a new weekly planner where you can organize your daily "to do" lists in one seamless lump.
A few of our recent tweets about life in quarantine:
Day 30: I cleaned my vacuum cleaner. NOTE: I did not say, "I cleaned WITH my vacuum cleaner." I said, "I cleaned my vacuum cleaner."
Day 32: I cleaned the inner tub of our washing machine.
Day 35: I started to alphabetize all of the items in my fridge, but I wasn't sure if the Mt. Olive Bread & Butter Pickles should go under M, B, or P -- so I stopped. I ate a family size bag of double-stuf Oreos instead.
Day 37: @IvankaTrump would be proud of me. I just finished reading the Sumerian mythological account of "Lugalbanda in the Mountain Cave," and I've learned to play the Hornucopian dronepipe. Now I'm thinking of learning to play Mayan temple trumpets.
Day 40: I'm beyond the "what day is it?" phase. I'm in the "what meal is this?" phase.
Day 43: You remember that quip from Lady Grantham, the Dowager Countess of Downton Abbey, "What is a weekend?" Yeah. That.
Day 44: Big day today. We're going to inventory our condiments before some online shopping.
Day 49: It was a gray morning, the sort of gray you’d see in the roots of a dame who’d finally given up the battle to go with color for a more youthful look & just go gray, but you wouldn’t notice the gray because everything in this day was gray like the color of a television tuned to an off air channel. It was 8:26 a.m. & the morning held the promise that nothing would happen. All day. Nothing would happen at all. It was the first of May, but at best, felt like Maybe.
Day 51: Another day of binge watching -- the refrigerator.
Day 52: I'm experiencing symptoms of pain, numbness and tingling in my backside. I believe I'm suffering from couchal tater syndrome.
We'll post a few more on @The_Dickinson as life in quarantine continues.
For now, we have changed the names of the days of the week since no one can remember what day it is any way (the days are now Someday, Mundayne, Chooseday, Whatsday, There'saday, Fraudday, and Sadderday), we have posted Emmett Lee Dickinson's poem "My Ass so has so little to do" below on the left. Dickinson's poem inspired third cousin Emily to pen her poem "The Grass has so little to do," below on the right, and -- as an added bonus -- we've included a new weekly planner where you can organize your daily "to do" lists in one seamless lump.
| By Emmett Lee Dickinson: A Day! Help! Help! Another Day! Affairs – they’re Passing by! From such a common spell as this What date of Mystery? From figurings once simple The need for patience springs Steady – my soul: What issues What day tomorrow brings? | By Emily Dickinson: A Day! Help! Help! Another Day! Your prayers – Oh Passer by! From such a common ball as this Might date a Victory! From marshallings as simple The flags of nations swang. Steady – my soul: What issues Upon thine arrow hang! |
Below: To simplify your life during the 2020 global pandemic for the Trump Virus, we have provided this "Weekly To do List" where you can organize your daily "to do" lists in one seamless lump.
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