March 23, 2020 — Cher journal,
Lockdown D+6 ou +7, idk.
Day follows day follows day… and they are ALL great!
I know what will pop into your mind if I tell you that I came across some wildlife documentary yesterday, around 1 A.M., and that I found it actually riveting — but nay, with all due respect to my friends who’ve “taken great precautions, recreationally speaking” in the face of our president’s recent historical statement — no, I do not personally indulge in smoking weed during my lockdown.
“A creature which only lives in crappy places where no one else goes” — “A f*cked-up thingy you’ve never seen before”—the voice-over does obviously NOT use those words specifically, these are intended for narration purpose. Suspense is maintained throughout the documentary’s short introduction when suddenly, BAM! you are presented with some sort of a nasty, almost disappointing shrimp — because you were expecting a dinosaur on the screen at this point — a tiny mess of a thing sloshing around with its hair styled à la Keith Flint from The Prodigy, Firestarter’s hair era (my apologies for this cheeky parallel).
1:02 A.M., the documentary’s keeps playing. I soon learn that the messy thing owes its face to remaining in a dark cave for too long — a bit like those nasty beasts in The Descent, except that in this peculiar instance, fellow Darwin would have veered and come off the evolutionary road, and the outcome would fallen flat (let’s say, cruddy-crashed-down a ravine). Over time, Little Keith (it’s funny how this lockdown’s loneliness has us rapidly Wilsonizing our environment) has lost its legs since it doesn’t have to carry its own weight in the water — (a bit like me on my couch right now). It can’t see sh*t — the cave’s pitch black anyway — (I do have a relatively sh*tty eyesight myself, I’ll admit). And Keith’s so white, translucent even! — its veins and blood flow are showing through, ‘bit gross if you ask me — been there, Keith, been there (’cause I have British ancestry).
However, in its ̶l̶a̶m̶e̶ ̶ kingdom n̶o̶ ̶o̶n̶e̶ ̶w̶o̶u̶l̶d̶ ̶e̶v̶e̶r̶ ̶w̶a̶n̶t̶ ̶a̶n̶y̶w̶a̶y̶, Keith is queen. “Topping out the whole food chain”, easy peasy plankton squelchy. I keep on drawing my own unsettling personal parallel and tell myself that, indeed, “same happens for me and the fridge, ‘am a born apex predator, ain’t no single broccoli mouthing back to me.”
Awesome targeting, Facebook.
We are just coming out of our traditionally gloomy Winter to *re-winternate throughout mandatory lockdown Spring. ̶R̶e̶-̶h̶i̶b̶e̶r̶n̶a̶t̶e̶,̶ ̶e̶v̶e̶n̶,̶ ̶f̶o̶r̶ ̶I̶ ̶w̶i̶l̶l̶ ̶c̶o̶n̶f̶e̶s̶s̶ ̶b̶o̶u̶t̶s̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶l̶e̶t̶h̶a̶r̶g̶y̶ ̶d̶u̶r̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶m̶y̶ ̶h̶o̶m̶e̶ ̶o̶f̶f̶i̶c̶e̶’̶s̶ ̶a̶f̶t̶e̶r̶n̶o̶o̶n̶s̶ ̶(̶p̶l̶e̶a̶s̶e̶:̶ ̶w̶h̶o̶ ̶d̶o̶e̶s̶n̶’̶t̶?̶)̶. Unsurprisingly, from a cutaneous perspective, this lockdown is already taking its toll on my already scarce Vitamin D routine — just like Little Keith. As my French self would say, I’m white as an *ss (an *ss well over the 30-year-old milestone and working non-stop seated, mind you). Besides, as hard as I try experiencing this lockdown with a Will-Smith-like mindset in I am Legend, it is painfully obvious that on a fitness level, I am more of a “sweatpants chicken” than a “sweaty chin-ups” type of person. That being said, Will and I yet share a similar lockdown original soundtrack: pajama-clad morning coffee is taken on Bob Marley — “ ’Cause every little thing gonna be all right”.
With such a circumstantial documentary, I am provided now with a rather plausible reflection of what I might end up resembling once we all eventually leave the House. And I do believe that an adorable punkish predator which other shrimpies won’t dare annoying — well, that wouldn’t be so bad, would it?
The end of lockdown? The end of home office? The end of Stay-Home-Save-Lives? “Let them come and get me”, as someone we Gauls love loathing tenderly would say. After this first week far from the Great Wild Outside and its People, I’ve become fond of civic spirit.
