I’m sick of texting, sick of reading and sick of asking my friends the same Covid questions – so I now communicate through absurd gifts in the post
I recently posted my friend, who lives in Sydney, a T-shirt emblazoned with an image of Garfield the cat with large breasts. Another, I sent a tin of Spam. This is my new Love Language – I won’t explain why this is funny, doing so will only humiliate us both.
At this stage of the pandemic, as many Melburnians endure a 200-and-something day of lockdown, I am finding myself so sick of words. Sick of condensing an existential spiral into a “fine thanks, you?” Sick of reading transcripts from press conferences that make me want to bop myself on the head with a large shovel. I am sick of emails hoping they “find me well”.
Read the original article at The Guardian