a better night’s sleep. For the first time since the defecation hit the fan, I had trouble sleeping. But it wasn’t because I’m the Prisoner of Zenda, or because my IRA is so far in the red this year that it crept off the right side of the visible spectrum, or even because I consider myself to be an abject failure for not knowing the answer to 11 down in the last five consecutive New York Times crossword puzzles I worked on, but rather because I’ve been hit so hard emotionally by the four thousand ASPCA television commercials for neglected and abused animals that I’ve seen in the last ten days.

more room in my refrigerator, at least for a day. As I couldn’t sleep, I decided to grab my ID and head to Whole Foods for their senior hour, looking for some action. I’m proud to say I was the first one in the door and the first one out, maneuvering the aisles as if I were a stunt driver in Ford v Ferrari. I would have lingered, but they weren’t playing any oldies on the sound system and there were no two-for-one drink specials.

rid of my pet tapeworm, which will clean out the refrigerator too quickly. Think about the effect sheltering-in-place would have had on Audrey II in Little Shop of Horrors. (Even with all the theaters closed, I can still sneak in references.)

someone to help me with the little things, like the intern employed by Seinfeld’s Kramer, who, like me, was “a solitary man with a messy apartment that may or may not contain a chicken.”