I thought being stuck at home with a seven-year-old might be at least slightly fun. We could do puzzles and finger paint and plant flowers and have dance parties and go for long walks and bake cookies and bread and learn to play the ukulele (yes, he has one) and film our cocoons opening. 

But his idea of fun and mine are many, many miles apart. As far as I can tell, all he wants to do is watch videos of other people playing video games. Games we own. Games he could be playing himself. But no. Stare blankly for hours as spastic pubescent assholes play them instead, screeching like gibbons all the while. I hate it.

So I guess I’ll go plant some flowers. By myself.

Or there’s always more sleep.

I may be getting a little depressed. I’ll try again tomorrow.