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Feuds I Have Started During Quarantine

By Anne T. Donahue 

If you think any of us can or will be spared from my wrath as we battle our collective global nightmare, think again. My pettiness transcends all. My memory? Iron clad. I never forget, and I always remember. And to add insult to injury, I long and lust for revenge.

So to that end, these are the feuds I have recently started. They’re serious, they’re legitimate, and not a soul among you will talk me out of them.

FedEx/UPS
Whenever they drive by my home (see: parents’ house) without bringing me a present, I take it personally. Why are they withholding my gifts? Why won’t they share what they have? Don’t they know I’m waiting for shorts from the Gap that I ordered weeks ago and forgot about until I saw their trucks? Don’t they know how happy I’d be to receive a plastic bag with my name on it? Why do they flaunt what they have? Why do they parade their power in front of the powerless? Please, just slow down and let me inside. Let me investigate. Look around. See if there’s anything cool that no one has claimed. Stop treating me this way. We could have something special. Please. A present. A beg of thee.

Certain neighbourhood dogs
Honestly, we get it. You’re outside and you’re psyched and you want us to know. But guess what: so am I. I am also psyched. I am also outside. But I’m not running up to the fence and screaming at strangers so they know I’m alive. I know that you’re there. You could just sit there, and I’d acknowledge you. Do you see my cat? He doesn’t care. He’s at work, looking out the window, surveying the land. Would he let us all die should someone break in? Absolutely. But at the same time: I respect it. I don’t want to know if you like or if you hate me. I just want to know that should I need to, I can pet you.

The sun
It burned me. It’s May, and it burned me. My legs are burned. My arms are burned. I am burned. And it is not the fault of me, a person who refused to put on SPF, it is the fault of the sky and the large star within it. How dare the sun. How dare the sky. I’ve been shouting “My legs!” into the void since yesterday afternoon.

Cars with freakishly loud . . . mufflers? Is that it?
I don’t know. I don’t understand. Motorcycles? I understand. Cars? Souped up Sentras? Absolutely not. What’s happened to you? Is everything fine? Are you upset? Do you need me to ask you this? What do you expect to happen next? I flag you down, rush over, and say, “I’m here! Are you okay?” Is that what you need from me? Do you know you can just dye your hair a cool colour? Or ride a bike while shrieking at the top of their lungs? Why are you trying to frighten us? And how do you know that it’s time to drive by while my friends and/or family are in the midst of a serious conversation about life and where it all went wrong?

The way I look in my bedroom mirror
It’s warped, I know this. I don’t know where, but I do know that when I compare it to photos of me, I look like two different people, but can’t tell why yet. Is it my hair? My calves? The way one arm is notably thinner than the other, but only when I put it on my hip, and only between the ankle and forearm? Probably. But I hate it. I hate the situation, and I hate the mirror, and I hate myself for being so cheap and so lazy that I will not replace it no matter how much it mentally ruins me.

All I am saying is that in some instances, I have looked into that mirror and thought I had hooves.

Every person who does not write back to my Instagram stories, complimenting my clothes
I get it: you’re busy. But do you know what really takes time? Choosing an outfit. Choosing an outfit for you. I mean, who else is it for? Me? You’re joking. No, I am proving to all of you that to wear the same jogging pants shorts for eight days in a row, you too can make them as unique as Marge Simpson’s Chanel suit. That shit is for you. I want to inspire you with the question, “Is she wearing that shirt ironically or is it something she found on the street?” It might be both. (It is absolutely both.) So ultimately, when I wear bunny slippers with a dress, that is a treat not just for me.

The rain
I hate it more than the sun. (She said, while sitting directly in the sun. Tomorrow, “sun poisoning” will be added to this list. But not today.)

Need a little more Anne? Read more from Anne T. Donahue right here!

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