There is a container of three-week-old coleslaw in the refrigerator.
I have eaten toasted-cheese-with-fig-jam sandwiches at least twenty-one times in the past seven weeks.
Sometime it is impossible to remember when I last washed my hair.
I don’t let myself get out of bed in the morning until I’ve figured out what day it is.
I have worn the same cardigan sweater for seven weeks. Every day. There are probably three hundred pieces of thread stuck on it. I like it that way.
Watching any kind of news on television makes me nauseous. I still listen to local talk radio, but I yell at it a lot.
I am recording every episode of HUNTING NAZI TREASURE.
We miss our police and drug-dealing friends from five seasons of THE WIRE and we still amuse ourselves by talking like street thugs.
Every single day we count the hours until six o’clock when we can sit on the couch and watch tv. This is sad, but it’s important to have something to look forward to, right?
I have stopped counting how many rolls of toilet paper are in the basement and have started counting the days until I get on a plane.
After this is over I want to go out to eat every night for the rest of my life.