Gonna nap your way out of this.
Not gonna nap your way out of this.
Gonna journal your way out of this.
Not gonna journal your way out of this.
Gonna Zoom your way out of this.
Not gonna Zoom your way out of this.
Gonna Amazon Prime your way out of this.
Not gonna Prime your way out of this.
Gonna eat your way out of this.
Try not to eat your way out of this.
Gonna meditate, yogafy, aromatherapize, positively affirmate and/or brew your own Kombucha your way out of this.
More likely gonna yell at your kids your way out of this.
Gonna cry your way out of this.
Really wish I could cry my way out of this.
Gonna Hulu, Hate Your President, handwash, and howl at 8 o'clock your way out of this. At least until—
You can inoculate your way out of this.
Gonna/Not gonna
tidy
sweep
wash
Marie Kondo-ize
worry
sidewalk chalk
advance plan
hoard
online educate
laugh
Spotify
psychoanalyze
blame
charm
walk
jog
bike
scoot
ponder infection graphs
drink
bathe
garden
podcast
self-hate
delude
bargain
condemn-those-who-don't-wear-masks-in-grocery-stores your way out of this.
Gonna see this as an opportunity to expunge all the parts of your personality that really don't work for anybody and build a new self, layer-by-layer, and start to listen more and talk less in gratingly opinionated ways, and come to terms with your anxiety about the future—any future, all the possible futures that keep you up at three a.m.—and reach out to the people in high school and college you weirdly find yourself thinking about for the first time since high school and college, some of whom you are recently coming to realize you treated quite badly, and finally really I mean it this time take seriously those PT exercises for your going-on-three-years bum shoulder your way out of this.
You're also gonna eat a lot of jelly beans.
Gonna survive this.
Not gonna survive this.
Gotta survive this.