Features Editor Lucia Cheng `23 writes about her second time getting COVID this year.

Wednesday, Aug. 31

9:30 a.m.: Struggle to wake up. Think my cat Winona is sitting on my chest, but it’s really my depression chest stone. Winona stares at me from the floor, then throws up.

10:15 a.m.: In class, I get the sneezes three times in a row. They’re just allergies, I tell myself. 

11:30 a.m.: I get winded walking from the HSSC to the JRC. Think it’s the sheer exhaustion of inhabiting a flesh prison. 

12:00 a.m.: “I’m sick,” I tell my friend. “Nice,” he says. “What if it’s COVID?” I ask. “From the casino on Saturday?” he asks. “Yeah, the one where you said we would get hate-crimed for wearing a mask at?” I ask. “Yeah,” he says. (And yet, the Asian American woman in a group of white men is the only one to get COVID. When will karma be on my side.)

8:30 p.m.: Take a rapid test; it’s negative. Realize that I got a bug stuck in the sticky strip. 

9:00 p.m.: Spit into the PCR test tube.

Thursday, Sept. 1

10:00 a.m.: Zoom into class discussion about the U.S. as the New World built over the ghosts of Indigenous people. Another friend and I try to raise our hands, but we are unseen, unheard. 

11:00 a.m.: Get a to-go box of food. Mac and cheese is better if you dump Zuppa Tuscana in it. Good soup. Continue sneezing onto my cat. 

1:00 p.m. – 7:00 p.m.: Nap. 

7:15 p.m.: Wake up, miss my ex and decide to swear off men. I refuse to be half gay anymore. I will be full gay.

9:30 p.m.: Winona turns into a rotisserie chicken. 

Friday, Sept. 2

10:00 a.m.: PCR test comes back positive. I text everyone and shed a single tear. I must have eaten COVID-y chicken strips at the casino.

10:15 a.m.: People ask if they can get me anything. But can they get me a new partner? No.

3:00 p.m.: Consider doing a quarantine haircut. Wolf cut or undercut? Wonder if I should do a pixie cut, but know that I will look like an egg. The struggle of a midsize Asian. 

7:00 p.m.: My friend says I should be grateful that D-Hall is still giving me food. It’s true. With each mouthful of powdered eggs I think, gratitude, gratitude. 

Saturday, Sept. 3

12:30 p.m.: Wake up. Winona’s butt is in my face. Miss lunch.

1:30 p.m.: Winona screams at the door, wanting to go outside. Me too, my precious child, me too.

4:00 p.m.: Zoom chat with a staff writer but can’t keep track of my tangents. My mouth is moving, but words are not making sense. Hope I will not have COVID brain for the rest of the semester. 

7:00 p.m.: I decide to eat a packet of Shin Ramen Red dry as a snack. 

9:00 p.m.: I listen to the sounds of happy people partying. After I am released from my spiral of envy, I play Madison by Orla Gartland on the ukulele. 

Sunday, Sept. 4

11:00 a.m.: Hysteria is setting in. Day in, day out, waking up and staring at the same section of the ceiling with the same drool on my cheek. Is life real? What am I doing here? Why does it take so much energy and resources to keep up this flesh body? 

12:00 p.m.: Fire alarm goes off and Winona hides under the bed.

12:05 p.m.: Instant loneliness. What have I become. I am taking up space and I don’t like it. Allthese resources for the flesh prison and for what?

12:10 p.m.: Winona comes back up and all is right in the world. She loves me and I love her. 

1:00 p.m.: I consider texting my ex about friendship, but I am still blocked. My therapist tells me to wait a week, which essentially translates to “don’t do it.” 

3:00 p.m.: Go outside to study, making it valiantly through one article, but not retaining any information. Break into a karaoke session with my friend. Get lightheaded and need to lie down. 

9:00 p.m.: Winona does not care about life or death. Only her litter box.

Monday, Sept. 5

12:30 p.m.: I am DONE. Slept through my alarm. Runny nose and am loopy. 

1:00 p.m.: I consider eating the same grass Winona does. Or perhaps beg for a smoothie from the Grill. 

Tuesday, Sept. 6

10:00 a.m.: FREEDOM. 

11:15 a.m.: I want to sing my ode to the heavens about how good lettuce, cucumbers and tomatoes taste. 

3:00 p.m.: My brain is trying to thaw; walking makes the liquid slosh to the front of my head. I am pulled in one specific direction: destruction.

4:00 p.m.: Look out, Tinder. The tiger has been released from its cage.