The diary of a coronavirus rebel

Diary entries by Cori O’Virus, as dictated to columnist Colleen O’Brien

Dear Diary – Paradoxical parasite back on the job. My human is also back on the job also. At her computer, she writes about the “word war” that her president has started in her country, the war of true words versus alternative words. She calls it a civil war. Doesn’t seem very civil to me – it’s wearing everyone down. Nice

I’m merely a renegade virus visiting a human with a plan for both species to calm down, quit being killers. But I’ve been here two weeks and have yet to introduce myself to her. My human doesn’t know that I’m living on her fridge, surviving on grease and dust and every now and then a flurry of bubbles from a beer can she opens. As her personal and benign coronavirus-on-fridge, I keep an eye on her, hoping for a moment in which to introduce myself so we can have a talk about a peaceful planet.

What she’s writing now is another serious diatribe against this leader she calls “45.” She has learned that he’s pinpointing, so as to discredit, all writers in the country who write “against” him. She is both furious about this and I think a little nervous — she hasn’t let up on him since he came on the scene four years ago, so she might be a target.

Ah…she sits back, looking out at the river, done writing for a while. Whatever she just wrote she sent off to someone. Not her editor but to one of those people in her writing group – the WWWs. Stands for Women Who Write. Wild Women Writing. Wrinkled Women Writers. They riff on this all the time. It seems there are dozens of word ways to be a WWW.

My human relaxes with a salad and cup of green team – tea – sitting on her front porch watching the river. I wonder why she doesn’t have a boat. It would do her good.
Her computer dings and she comes inside to see who has emailed her.

She sits down happy but immediately slumps in her chair staring at the screen. She gets up and goes in her bedroom. I read the screen:

“I cannot believe you have such hate in you that you would write all these horrible things about the President. Why are you so full of hate?”

Trouble in River City, I see. I hope my human is just taking a nap, not doing away with herself. There’s nothing in that bedroom to sustain me unless I land on her, so I have to wait for her to return. I hope it’s soon. I like this explanation!

Reading what was sent to her by one of her Ws, I can see why my human is upset. Her friend is telling my human she is a hater. This one member of the Ws group who is what my human calls a Trumpet is upset by my human calling “45” mean, a nightmare, a bully, a liar, stupid, not kind, horrid, evil, a disgrace.

Those are hateful things my human has said. But I read on and see that these are words he, “45,” has called the Press. My human is saying to him…”’your daily diatribe against reporters is a classic transference of your behavior to others. You are the one who is…”mean, a nightmare, etcetera.”

How complicated are these humans and their words. My human’s writer friend from the WWWs is calling my human a hater!

The woman who is a Trumpet is transferring her hateful behavior to my writer?
Damn, these humans are complex, weird, bent on confusing themselves beyond redemption.

Ah, she’s back.

And full of bounce. What is she writing now?

Dear W friend — you are right! Thank you! The writer is quoting – what is there to be apologizing for

I was trying to save liberty!

I got sidetracked by a guy trying to . . . win votes? Make me hate? Not sure what he’s doing, but I’m not playing anymore. I am done, thanks to you. I’m letting the frightened old man go. His gimme/gotcha game is more boring than Candyland.

Because of you, I get it! Hate begets hate! So, how about love begets love? My dear W, when Eleanor Roosevelt said, “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent,” she was right. It’s not the exact quote I want here, but it leans in the right direction. I allowed him, “45,” to make me less than, so I hated him.

Not good.

He can have his growly hate, and I’ll get my life back. I’ll just do the things that make me happy, so they might make others feel hopeful: travel articles – what better thing to write about when we’re all sequestered? It can be “dream-along-with-me” time. I don’t need to fear his lying or his coming after me as a writer calling him out. There are a million writers out here making sure everyone knows what he’s up to, so my fears of our democracy dying are a sky-is-falling paranoia.

I could skip along my dock! (It’s too short – don’t fall in) – maybe I could dance on my dock – I could finish my novel! I could clean house! I’ll make more pretty face masks out of my plethora of cotton napkins, and I’ll get more friends to give more food for me to take to more pantries. I’ll send more snail mail to my fellow stay-at-homes. I’ll just read a book.
I am lighter than air. Could end here

I’ll be ZOOMing with you at WWWs on Wednesday, friend. Thanx for dissing me enuff to wake me up! If this is going to the paper I don’t think you need this
Your Friend in Words, ____________”

‘Lighter than air’? ‘Clean house’? I guess it’s time for me to move on, find another human to bug. I won’t need to introduce myself to her. This human is already on a path of enlightenment. And it was her Trumpetr friend taught me this: It takes a really good friend to call a friend out.

Maybe that “45” guy has a good-enough friend to call him out.

Whether that happens or not, I’m outta here. Not to infect a human to kill, any more than my human will infect any of her kind to hate.
Onward.

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