I lay in bed as long as possible. If I stay in bed until noon, I can trick my body into having one less meal in the day.
What is time anymore, really?
All films have shut down. The first one went, just a "one week hiatus" because one of their cast members was in contact with someone who might be sick, then with that permission, the rest of them fell. Next, phone calls, saying nothing was starting back up.
Unemployment insurance paperwork. Settling in for the long wait. Boxed wine.
I cleaned the basement. Organized my tools. My god, do I own a lot of hammers.
Notification from my unemployment insurance. My payments runs out six weeks into the end of the world.
Did I mention boxed wine?
I try to stagger out my drinking days. I just can't stomach it several days in a row. The smell of the liquor sweating out of my skin makes me feel sick, so I take it easier.
My roommate, also a film worker, goes out for long walks in the morning. Eats oatmeal, and turns down cake. He's losing weight.
I can't seem to turn my brain off.
Paintings are started, and abandoned. I force myself to finish things, like directing a screaming toddler.
People ask me how I am.
"Fine," I tell them. "I mean, relatively."
My unemployment payments mysteriously start back up again.
Sometimes I go for a long drive and eat McDonald's hamburgers in my car, just to do something alone outside of my house.
I'm pretty sure every hamburger I eat is contaminated, and I'm going to get sick. I'm pretty sure eating McDonald's make me sick. I remember why I don't eat McDonald's.
I smoke a lot of weed, and it helps me sleep.
Recipes are attempted. Huge, complicated ones. Multiple day endeavors.
Then back to laying in bed until noon.
I'm fine, really. I mean, relatively.