By Anonymous, Edited by Katerina Theocharous

Dear Corona,

You’ve had me reeling through a cocktail of emotions these last couple weeks. When I first laid eyes on you, I was spellbound by those luscious curls of RNA and infectious looks. You were so well-travelled and talking about the celebrities you’d gotten under your spell. At first, I thought I didn’t have a chance with you, because everyone said you preferred older men. But being a naïve, sexually frustrated medical student, I thought there was a reason you didn’t want me in the gym or with my mates. I was too blinded by what others thought of you to see the shallow personality beneath that protein envelope. So, let me set things straight. Your most notable achievement is your body count. You call yourself a party animal and hate spending time alone, but you can’t stand alcohol, and every event you show up to gets shut down. You have an unhealthy obsession with your pet bat, spit in the face of personal hygiene, and give my grandma a hard time. You have been nothing but a toxic influence on my life. 

I am now too scared to leave my house in case I run into people like you. I have worn out two mattresses trying to sleep my sorrows away. I gained over ten kilos in weight and spent my waking hours scrolling through TikToks in my boxers. I am left with crippling anxiety that the perfect life I built for myself is slowly breaking apart, and you are the root of it all. Thank god you moved to the Northern Beaches before I could be completely ruined. I think it’s time I wash my hands of you all together.

And one last thing – I found out about the other guys and gals you have been hanging with, and I am going to get tested. You might have played with my emotions, but I am not letting you give me a disease.

To the others let down by ol’ Rona, we can get through it.

End rant,

Feverishly In Love

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