Sure, the advice is that many people will die if we don’t flatten the Corona curve, but Maree will literally die if she doesn’t go to the crowded Cott beach on this warm sunny day.
Feeling the vulture of guilt slowly circle her plans, she confides in her friend over messenger,
“My mum is being so lame!! Says I should self isolate because nan still comes over every now and then. Like, ok, but like she has a mask?”
Her friend couldn’t agree more, “yeah, like, if you’re sick totally stay home, but we’re young and even if we get it it’ll be mild, anyway… we need some fun seeing as Groovin the Moo got cancelled KILL ME 🙁 🙁 :(”
Well, that settles that, an army of health care workers begging an apathetic society to stay in compared to a minor episode of FOMO. There was only ever going to be one winner in that epic battle.
Maree meets up with a large gathering of fellow incubation tubes. She assures herself what she’s doing is fair – everyone looks healthy, no coughing or sneezing. Although, one would’ve thought the lingering itch of an unprotected hookup last week would’ve taught her the real danger lurks underneath the surface.
They share selfies, memories and most importantly personal space. After a few more Cruisers the sentiment shifts and screeches like a queen-harpie into her besties ear, “IF WE GET CORONA’D I HOPE ITS TOGETHER BABE”.
Fuck yeah, what’s a little pneumonia between friends? If you haven’t burdened the health care system together with your dumbcuntery then are you even best friends?
They hug and talk about how awesome quarantining together will be. Catch up on the latest TV shows, order UberEATS, do their nails. It’ll be just like any sleep over – just the kind where you might infect the vulnerable people in your life. Whoopsies.
After the beach, Maree and her crew of carriers head to Tom’s house. His parents are self-isolating down at the Yallingup pad, so he’s throwing a plague-party. Now, they are taking precautions – there is a bottle of hand sanitiser on the table. WHO eat your heart out.
Furthermore, they played a have-you-ever style drinking game and no one drank when Maree said she’d never died of COVID-19. Jesus, airport staff could learn a thing or two from this generation of contagion control specialists.
After the all you can transmit buffet the night before, Maree wakes up feeling a bit rough. Her head hurts from the booze and she’s coughing up lung oysters after all those rollies. She leverages her impending death against her mother’s requests to help with some chores. She shoots, she scores.
Maree then messages her best friend, “OMG, CORNAVIRUS FTW!! We going shopping later babes?”
Christ. Who needs an atomic war or an asteroid? We’re doing a pretty fucking job of ending the world ourselves.