“Listen,” he said. “We’re tackling all the hard stuff this year.” Well, he didn’t so much say it as type it. These days, most of our conversations happen online. It is August, and he is at home and I am at work. Only I am not working. I am staring at a running feed of images of people I barely know crawl across my screen.
Mostly babies and weddings and poorly lit images of barbeque chicken that, next to the babies, remind me a bit of afterbirth. I don’t know what he is doing. He is trying to reassure me that everything is going to be all right, even though he doesn’t have a job and my job makes me miserable.
“If you say so,” I respond. I tell him about the barbeque chicken.
“Gross,” he says. “What are you doing?” I ask.
“Multitasking,” he says.
I run across an image of a girl I went to college with. She is breastfeeding. She is also taking a shit. She is breastfeeding her pink and pruney, barbeque covered baby while also taking a shit. She is photographing it. She is proudly posting it for the world to see. Below, the caption reads:
Multitasking, 53 Likes.