The tagline from the movie Escape From New York was “New York City has Become the Only Maximum Security Prison for the Entire Country. Once You Go In, You Don’t Come Out.”

All my wires have tangled themselves.

All my rubber bands have disintegrated.

I have dozens of batteries of every size and shape, none of which fit in any device I own.

I own socks. More socks. Dozens of socks I haven’t worn in years.

I have dust. More dust. Dust in places I didn’t know existed.

I smelled mulch today. Yeah!

I visit my neighbors just as often now as I did before coronavirus.

If you walk on your hands, it’s less likely that you’ll touch your face with them.

I’ve now seen 47 different coronavirus-era entertainment shows that have ended with someone singing Over the Rainbow.

Now that I’ve received a new delivery of soap, I’ve elevated my game to washing both hands, not just the one I use to rub my eyes.

As a result, I’ve discovered that there isn’t enough hand lotion in the world when you’re washing your hands 25 times a day, not counting whatever may be happening during sleepwalking.

Before coronavirus, my tea kettle whistled in C Major. Now it whistles in D# Minor.