Four of Swords

In my college improv group, we used to play a short form improv game called Three Sad Drunks.

We'd get a suggestion from the audience – let's say "balloons." The first improviser would sidle up to the "bar" as a sad old drunk character and tell a sad, drunk story about a balloon – the time they got a balloon for their birthday and their sister popped it in a fit of jealous rage. The next improviser (as a sadder, drunker drunk) would say, "You think that's bad..." and then they'd top that story with one about a balloon that was worse than the first – they hired a hot air balloon to propose to their one true love only to be rejected thousands of feet in the air. The last, saddest, drunkest drunk would interrupt, "You think that's bad..." and top the other two with a truly horrific and insane story only sort of about a balloon – like the time their entire family attended the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade only to wind up crushed to death by the Snoopy float... or something hilarious like that.

You would have loved our shows.

So far, 2025 feels like an ongoing round of Three Sad Drunks, except it's an infinite number of sad drunks and the audience suggestion was "new year." It's hard to imagine twenty-seven days with this much horror and heartbreak not being the result of some kind of ancient curse, or the bleak ironic humor of twenty-year-olds who have never known real pain.

In other news: I have Covid. And not just "I have Covid," but like, "I...cough...cough... hacking cough... have... (has to sit down)... cough... cough... (clutches wall, slowly lowers self to floor)... Covid." And let me tell you, friends, this strain is 0/10 Do Not Recommend. I give it no stars.

The Four of Swords depicts a figure lying on a cold tomb-like slab, hands clasped in prayer, with three swords dangling on the wall above their head (the last sword adorns the death slab). This figure is not dead, but you'd be forgiven for thinking otherwise (the pose is positively funereal). No, this fella is merely resting, meditating, taking a time out.

Who doesn't get their best naps beneath the pointy end of three swords?

My own convalescence looks nothing like this. First of all, I don't wear pantaloons. When sick I am exclusively pants-less, bra-less, and shower-less. My hair is not splayed beautifully on a pillow like a comatose princess, it's stuck to the side of my face as I sweaty nap my way through full body chills. Picture me on my stomach, neck wrenched dramatically to the side, face smashed into the pillow to ensure I get as many fine lines and wrinkles as humanly possible. I plan to leave 2025 looking two decades older than I entered it.

When this card appears in a reading, you may be feeling overwhelmed, overloaded, mentally taxed, or stressed (you don't say....). The Four of Swords is a warning: it is time to rest, because you've got battles to fight soon enough and you'll need your strength. This is a time to recuperate, to reserve your energy and recharge your batteries for whatever lies ahead.

Personally, I'd love a hint as to what lies ahead and what these future battles might entail... I'm kind of full up on my battle schedule at the moment.

From my sick bed, I try not to read the latest news about the not-even-a-week old Trump 2.0 administration. Unfortunately, I can't help but see that we've decided that Pete Hegseth, alleged drunk batterer of wives, assaulter of women, Nazi tattoo enthusiast, and embezzler of non-profit funds (and this is just the shit that's been reported), is an excellent choice to run the Department of (checks notes) Defense. I know I feel safer with an absolute maniac at the helm of the world's most powerful fighting force. Thank God he's gonna get ladies out of the military (apparently he's also quoted as saying that women "should not vote or work").

No, no, I'm resting. I'm doing the prayer hands emoji and centering myself as coronavirus spike proteins weasel their way through my nasal passages, lymph nodes, and I don't know, heart? Brain? I forgot some of the COVID facts that I was forced to learn for the years where we all kept multiple pulse oximeters in our homes, prepared to rush our loved ones to overcrowded hospitals in the midst of a global crisis (one in which the President suggested we all drink bleach).

Maybe I should have retained some of my COVID expertise, but I was busy making room in my brain for air quality analysis. About two weeks ago, I became a AQI specialist and sea captain, concerned at all times with the direction of the wind. You think that's bad? Thousands of Angelenos have also had to become insurance specialists, FEMA liasons, HEPA filter advocates, GoFundMe analytics experts, trauma/parenting therapists, and about a thousand other things.

It seems insane to ask people to navigate bureaucracy mere minutes after the worst day of their lives, but if you take too much time to process or grieve you'll miss the window when the rest of the world gives a shit, or you'll end up at the back of the red tape line.

WHERE WAS I?

Oh yes, resting, prayer hands, meditating, preserving my energy for the battles ahead.

But just for a quick second while I'm thinking of it... Trump's cruelty is unparalleled. On Friday he toured the destruction of the Palisades (and skipped Altadena... though I'm not sure why any one is surprised). He then spent the rest of the day blaming California officials for the devastation, citing misinformation and baseless claims, and talking about withholding aid until we change our (checks notes)... VOTER ID LAWS.

He's pardoning insurrectionists, terrorizing undocumented people, ripping families apart, yapping about "two genders and ONLY two genders" (like he's the arbiter of such a thing), pushing an anti-vax brain worm for Secretary of Health and Human Services. There are credible sexual assault allegations for many of the nominated members of his cabinet. He's filling the seats of his inauguration with tech billionaires – the same people who got us into this mess in the first place, who are destroying the Earth and flying around on private jets and building labyrinthine bug out palaces in Hawaii and New Zealand for when the shit really hits the fan. Apparently, he's also banning Pride flags.

It's enough to make your head explode, which is sort of how my head feels right now with all those spike proteins.

I don't know how to rest in the apocalypse. I don't know how to preserve my energy and for which battles. It feels like there are a thousand battles that need to be fought every single day. And right now it's hard to walk up and down the stairs in my house.

Last night I told myself fuck it, you've got Covid, have a little treat. I gathered a gorgeous bowl of gummy candies and promptly realized that the only taste in my mouth is the bitter metallic tinge of Paxlovid. I still ate every single candy hoping something would change.

You think that's bad, says the last sad drunk...