By the end of 2021, I felt stuck.

The pandemic had taken its toll on me.

As pandemic lottery's go, I was lucky.

I moved to my hometown, Buffalo, New York, found a nice sunny apartment to hide in by myself.

Though it was far from all my friends, it was close to family, and it felt safer

than the big cities I was used to.

I made voice diaries, narrating my new normal.

Here on Kia Island, I'm ace.

It's population one, but it's also population fun.

I learned how to install braids in my hair, how to make duck confi.

I'm wearing a coat of this little pan.

It's home-on for dear life.

I bought roller skates and began to slowly roll up and down the hallway of my third floor

apartment in knee pads, elbow pads, wrist pads, stiff as a board, heavy as a rock, waving

my arms around like an inflatable at a car dealership.

Nope.

I'm in the house skating, because personally, I find it really embarrassing and overwhelming

to be so bad in public.

I mean, I'm really not trying to bust my ass at the rainbow rake.

But after months and months of being in the house, the couch had a permanent divot for my

butt.

My voice diaries got more and more mundane, narrating the petty drama outside my window.

...