A Journal of the Plague Year Day 85

Friday 12th June 2020

SICK. Got up in the middle of the night to vom, perhaps food poisoning. Used to hate doing this, but after a lifetime of hangovers and drunkenness it becomes as banal as walking the cat. Very similar to A’s experience a few days earlier.

Bloated, achey, migrainey all day and into the night, sleeping only in fits. I hope its not The Thing. Worryingly with sore throat, feeling constantly dehydrated.


Read my beeday present to myself, Everything Trump Touches Dies, which is chortlingly bitchy, and written by an utterly vicious cunt. Also spent an unhealthy time on Twitter, watching the fireworks as JK Rowling is embroiled in trans rights issues for insisting on the existence of women by name and not description (objecting to an article describing ‘people who menstruate’). She has come under fire before, but although she asserts she supports them and will march with them, the net is alive with recrimination, notably a trope of ‘suck my trans dick’, verging on the usual misogyny.


She followed up without budging on her stance, and affirming she knew what it was like to be bullied, having been in an abusive relationship before. The Sun odiously followed through with a front page exposé interview with her former husband and abuser, who said he’d slapped her and was not sorry. Cue uproar that they’d given him a platform to continue to belittle her, and a statement from the rag that they were supportive of Wimmin n stuff. Phwoar!



And now The Trump has just made it legal again to discriminate against Trans people in US healthcare, as of a few hours ago.

We’re gonna need popcorn.

Just while I lie down a bit. There’s something to be said about how distant we are yet connected. Or is that connected yet distant? What is more real -the pressing physicality of the here, now, the sickness of body and mind, or the clean time travelling, across oceans to places and people imagined through screens? I wonder one day if we will just end up cancelling physicality and live our lives out as nodes in some vast programme that replicates that Matrix moment of a universe.


I think I’ll fly over to Mali now.



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