9:53 am – Sunday, April 5, 2020 – Breakfast Table
Eric and I were discussing our predictions for a post-Coronavirus world last night.
Eric has known me since sophomore year of college – back when I first started assaulting his inboxes with far-fetched predictions about U.S. socioeconomic institutions – so there was no reason for me to be measured with my thoughts. No need to be “realistic” now. I cracked my knuckles, straightened my back, and sent text after text about society’s dizzying acceleration toward the matrix.
A third political party emerges!
VR gyms! VR nightclubs! 5-star vacations through augmented reality!
The first generation of children to evolve past the need for physical contact!
And depending on how long this goes, I said as my final mic drop, sex robots becoming a lot more socially acceptable!
I was expecting to see a string of *mind blown* emojis the next time my phone dinged. A Wee Bey gif or something to show that his third eye had officially been opened. But I knew as soon as I picked up the phone that he wasn’t buying it.
MFs can barely figure out how to mute the microphone in Google Meet, he said. We’re far from a cyber dystopia.
What could I say expect a hearty touché?
But Eric wasn’t Mr. Logic and Reason with his post-COVID predictions either. Instead of a cyber dystopia like I was predicting, he was thinking more along the lines of The Walking Dead.
Two of my co-workers have family in Detroit with COVID who are showing signs of mental and emotional issues, he wrote, ominously. Maybe it’s the start of the crazies.
I was like wuuuuuuut and suggested that it might have something to do with isolation and perhaps those folks just needed time to readjust, but I didn’t push it. Or judge. Like our G-Chats from the problematic years of 2008-2012, our texts are a safe space. But I wasn’t about to take that highly suspect, anecdotal, third-party information seriously either.
That was, until this morning, when I saw my dad.