So, ok. Feck these disingenuous performative conservatives vowing to die so we can jumpstart an economy.

Um, no. Neither Bobbye nor Hubert Watkins, 80 and 83 respectively, will be offered up to the gods of capitalism.

They know it’s not themselves who ever have to make good on their faux pledges. It’s my parents, who, between them, worked for over 75 years; she in education, he on the flight deck fixing jets, who will bear the brunt.

And get this–I can’t see them. Because I have to work, I am exposed to many many people. The only proper response to this virus is to assume and then to act like you’re Person Zero; by sequestering, you’re not just protecting yourself from the world, you’re protecting the world from you.

But I can’t protect my parents. Because I visualize myself as a walking talking pathogen, there is no way I will enter their home. Were I allowed to shelter in place, I would risk maybe a visit with the standard 6 feet of space. But no. So I will bring them what they need and leave it on the porch; I won’t even go into the garage, because they use their garage like a second family room.

This is not only true for me. But this directly affects me. They’re already somewhat isolated. Now I can’t even comfort them in person from a safe distance.

These not-so-unintended consequences are real.

Don’t sacrifice me for a bump in the S&P. And you better leave my parents the feck alone.