Mom was able to get my typewriter back from the repair shop. The owner apparently told her that it was the last one he was going to service for at least a few weeks since most places around town have been shutting down.

It’s wild to think that it’s come to this. I had assumed that the company I work for was overreacting when they sent everyone home, but now…cases of infections have been skyrocketing. That’s not even the scary part, though - it’s the fact that the hospitals are being overwhelmed by the deathly ill, even here outside the city.

They’re struggling to find masks for the nurses and doctors, too. The CDC casually mentioned that N95 masks could probably block the virus and people went apeshit. The local hospitals have put out calls for literally any kind of protective equipment people are willing to donate, even simple cotton masks.

I don’t think I’m really afraid yet. Not for me, anyway. My parents are higher risk so I may have to limit my contact with them, which is unfortunate since seeing them amounts to the sum total of my social interaction these days.

On the one hand, I’m glad that I have my own apartment since the only places I’ve been able to go are the grocery store and my parents’ house (at least until now). On the other hand, I basically can’t leave. I’m lucky that all or most of my friends are exclusively online because I’m not sure I could have handled the solitude if I’d been used to seeing them in person on a weekly basis.

We spend most evenings just hanging out on Facetime or Zoom and watching movies, so the apartment doesn’t feel too empty.

Anyway - for now the typewriter is sitting on my dining table. I’ll probably choose some other, better place for it once the rest of my furniture comes in. I do enjoy looking at it, however, and it has begun to offer me a little motivation to write again.

It’s fascinating to think that it belonged to someone once upon a time. It was astonishingly well preserved so either it wasn’t used very much, or someone loved it and took exceptionally good care of it. I’d prefer to believe it was the latter.

Writing is such a personal hobby. I like thinking of all the things the original owner might have written on it. An unfinished memoir, maybe? News articles? Letters to some ill-advised love interest? Again, fascinating.

On that note, I may spend some time this weekend stretching my little writing muscles. I just need to start…or, that’s what I keep telling myself. It could end up being complete trash, but at least I’ll be entertained while the world gets its collective shit together, right?