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.”

putting up a nerf ball basket in my living room.

teaching myself how to juggle.

whether we’ll all wind up conditioning ourselves to wash our hands whenever we sing happy birthday, as opposed to the other way around.

whether there’s any reason to check my mail.

whether I should represent my neighborhood in the upcoming Hunger Games, senior edition.

calling people I don’t even like.

how many people will get infected carrying the Olympic Torch.

pretending it’s all only a movie, which reminds me that it’s time to look for the closest drive-in theater.

whether I should trust the guy selling coronavirus test kits out of the back of his van across the street.

using old socks as gloves.

starting to bet on the weather, the only action Las Vegas is still hosting.

rewriting the lyrics to South Park’s Blame Canada to Blame China.

throwing out everything I own, except what I need for juggling, so that I don’t have to worry about disinfecting it.

setting my alarm clock for June.

feels like he’s in an escape room game that he can’t figure out?

is leaving bread out to grow mold in the hope of discovering a treatment?

has heard enough news about Tom Brady?

would sink to watching a live curling tournament if it were available?

is keeping track of how many times in a row he doesn’t get an error message when extracting the flash drive from his laptop? (It’s the little things.)

wonders how long it will take for our first made-for-tv coronavirus movie? Production studios are shut down, but next year’s Oscars may have to add a category for home movies.

has hit the limit (mine was apparently 100) on phone numbers he can block?

wonders whether there is now a market for fake IDs for people in their 50s who want to pass for 60?

never liked shaking hands in the first place? “The history of the handshake dates back to the 5th century B.C. in Greece. It was a symbol of peace, showing that neither person was carrying a weapon.”  I guess concealed carry wasn’t allowed back then.

flosses before using Zoom video?

had to look up the word for fear of crowds (which we now all have)? – enochlophobia

has eliminated running with the bulls from his bucket list and replaced it with having a meal with friends?

If this were an episode of Star Trek Voyager, the crew would be put into stasis while the holographic doctor worked on, and of course found, a cure, in under an hour.

Does social distancing signal the end of car-pool lanes and the use of anatomically-correct inflatable dummies placed in the passenger seat to fool the car-pool police? And how about dummies as automatic pilots in airplanes?

If every city follows the lead of Hoboken and restricts restaurant business to take-out and delivery, that should free up a lot of indoor space to house inmates to help address the issue of social distancing in overcrowded prisons, where it’s known as solitary confinement.

While stepping outside for some fresh air, while we’re still allowed to do so, I noticed that everyone else was walking a dog, which led me to wonder whether dogs chase balls we throw only to make us feel better about picking up their poop. And are people hoarding those little plastic bags just like they’re hoarding toilet paper?

While walking, I noticed a sign on Dave & Buster’s saying that you must be 18 or over to enter the premises. I wonder whether establishments will start restricting entrance to those under the age of 60, which would result in the largest class action lawsuit in history if anyone 60 or older actually wanted to enter a Dave & Buster’s.

Most of us seem to have gotten past shaking hands, and good riddance, but other more practical-oriented habits, like touching door handles, pushing elevator buttons, and breathing when around people, may be tougher to break, especially the last one.

Change all your passwords, daily at first, more often later if you’re still bored. Then try to memorize all 500 of them.

Remove your spam filters and start reading all your junk email and listening to all the robocalls you get.

Learn a new skill – campanology has a nice ring to it, though it may annoy the neighbors.

Take a free online course from a top university – epidemiology seems like a useful one.

And then watch all the contagion movies. Check out Vulture’s list of The 58 Best Pandemic Movies to Binge in Quarantine.

While you’re at it, there’s a new sequel to the book The Andromeda Strain, The Andromeda Evolution, which I recommend, even though it wasn’t written by Michael Crichton, who, after all, left us in 2008. I wonder how he would feel about the amazingly convoluted Westworld television series, which I don’t recommend.

Shred every shred of paper in your possession – very cathartic.

Write the consensus Great American Novel, thereby eliminating the other pretenders on The Literary Hub list, which, by the way, does not include the Philip Roth book, The Great American Novel, which I, and perhaps a few others, actually have read.

Think about exercising, but don’t actually exercise, as you might hurt yourself, and it’s not a good time to need medical attention.

Start writing a blog. It empties your head, and thereby helps you sleep at night.

Sleep, a lot – not only does it help cleanse the brain of toxins (so that you can pursue all the above activities), it helps preserve toilet paper and hand sanitizer (unless you’re a sleep cleaner), and, who knows, things might be better when you wake up.