In Our Old Haunts After The Vaccine
Hello. It’s nice to see you again — yes, it really HAS been a long time. What a wild year, am I right? Can’t say I’ll miss it, that’s for sure!
I suppose I should mention that I’ve turned into a cryptid. I mean, you’ve probably noticed; I’m sure the way I scuttled out from behind the door was something of a clue. I imagine the matted hair and faint smell of bog water aren’t subtle either. Once, before this all began, I was a human person, like you — that’s all over for me now. I‘ve become a cryptid, there doesn’t seem to be any way to undo it, and that’s all I have to say about that.
Oh, you... you want to go to a restaurant? I mean, I guess it’s fine, since we all got fully vaccinated and then strictly followed the CDC’s guidelines about how long you should wait after vaccination before going to a restaurant. It’s just... I mean... you know about the screaming, right? You know that halfway through the meal I’m going to look up, and my little cryptid eyes are going to send the image of the room full of unmasked people to my little cryptid brain, and I’m going to scream and scream and scream until I can scream no more? It’s not personal, of course. I won’t be doing it on purpose. These are just the realities of my life as a creature forged in the fires of despair; sorry if that’s inconvenient for you. Maybe it would be better for you to go without me.
You want to come inside my house, you say? You want to come into the place where I live and behold it with your only eyeballs, which I will not be able to replace if horror melts them out of your skull? I’m terribly sorry, but it simply will not possible. Even if you could bear to let your gaze rest upon my tchotchkes and trinkets, my unholy selection of dirtied laundries — even if I could bear, after all this change that’s been wrought, to watch you see the way I live now — we still couldn’t do it. These days I make my home at the bottom of a swamp, you see, and somewhere up there there’s a little door, constantly moving, that’s only big enough for me and my husband. If anyone else tries to get through the door the swamp swallows them whole, and the would-be intruder is surprised to find themselves pop up miles away, in a totally different pool of brackish water. It was the only way to be safe! But it would, I’m sure you can see, put you in an uncomfortable position. I’d like to spare you that, as a friend.
Why, yes, I do think there’s the chance this year has made me profoundly bizarre in ways I will never truly be able to understand or express. Thank you so much for bringing that up.
Oh! Yes, of course you’re right that I’ve changed up my look — how kind of you to notice. Last time we met I was working on defining my vibe, you know? But since going cryptid I really feel I’ve pinned it down. Do you like my outfit? It’s just a trash bag with a hole cut in it for my head over a pair of sweatpants I’ve had since I was 17, but I feel like it captures my headspace beautifully. And my hat? Why, no, that’s not a hat at all; cryptids grow a lot of hair, it turns out, when they’re stuck inside for a year. You can try poking it, but I wouldn’t. It really has a life of its own.
What’s that? You want us to stand within six feet of one another, without masks on, and have a conversation about art, media, culture, politics, or any other topic? I’m sorry, I am, but you must understand that it can’t be done. I wouldn’t be able to pay attention to a thing you said, not with a year’s worth of coiled terror screaming that my death was escaping that very instant from your uncovered maw! And even if I did manage that staggering feat, I’m no longer sure I understand the basics of human conversation. What exactly was small talk? I knew once, but it was in another time, another age; I can’t recall. Is there space in a face-to-face discussion for me to mute myself when you say something I don’t like, mutter “Oh god. Oh my god,” in aggrieved but unheard tones, and then blame the blip in my audio on Zoom? Probably not. Can I, you know, tip back my head and make eldritch noises when I’m uncomfortable? I doubt it. You can see why it might be best to leave it alone.
No, no, I don’t mean to suggest that I think our friendship is dead. Far from it! I’m looking forward to continuing to have you in my life for years to come. It’s just that the way I’ll remain in your life is as a poorly socialized lagoon creature; I truly am sorry. This is just the reality of the situation we’re in now. I’d change it if I could, but it cannot be helped.
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