"My day as a marmot"

29th of May, In the year of our Lord 2020

Again, no one got to know about my floral panties or the sweat-yellowed bra I sat on at the three-hour meeting. At school, I was known as the person who dressed stylishly and put on makeup on daily - or at least that’s how I would characterize myself. Would anyone recognize me if I inadvertently would click on the camera from my computer and exposed my gloomy messy bun -alter ego to ten of my teammates? I have noticed that my unsocial side character, let’s call it Tilda, takes power in me as never before, for always before so so witty and humorous, rhythmic style of speaking has turned into sluggish, slightly sarcastic home mama's whisky bass. What makes this special is that not a drop of alcohol has been consumed to achieve Tilda’s whisky bass-like tone of voice, and I dare not try it, because then at the latest my second dark self would be like a self-fulfilling prophecy. How did this get to this point?

I've done a characterization of Tilda and analyzed its way of operating. One of its most recognizable features is leaving things in the last drop: if the meeting starts at 8:15, Tilda will be there no earlier than 8:13 waking up five minutes earlier if good luck goes, but often not until 8:22. She arrives secretly at the meeting and even though she knows everyone will notice it, Tilda doesn’t apologize but snoozes to the end of the meeting, camera and microphone closed. This is especially repeated in the mornings. Another recurring feature in my alter ego is that it is unkempt. If Tilda even gets pants on her legs in the mornings, it’s a performance worth of at least one prize cinnamon roll. That's where we get to the third approach: snacking. Tilda lives almost purely on carbs (read: sugar), and her diet includes a bar of chocolate and pastries. Stove has been untouched for weeks and Tilda has no intention of using it.

Naturally, identifying the problem is the first step in finding a solution. Although Tilda has become my dear co-worker during these weeks, its ways of working are simply unsustainable. To my dismay, Tilda leaves me to take care of all the by-products from her activities, such as back pain, dirty hair, and malaise from eating all the rubbish (and I don’t even go to analyze how all of this affects my social status). So now, accompanied by these words, I officially decide to say goodbye to distance student Tilda. I’m going to dig out at the bottom of my closet for at least the long-missed top of my outfit, maybe even throw myself crazy and roll over my jeans. Yes, jeans. The situation is so desperate that I might even sweep the mascara on my face, free my hairline from the throttle of a tight bang, and end my own quarantine. I know Tilda hates all of this, especially the sunshine, so I believe that this is a recipe for freedom. I will return tomorrow to the question of how this war plan worked. Now, for tomorrow, dear diary.

The other Tilda