Hello, once again, from quarantine! Do you like games? I sure fucking do. Today we’re going to pass some time not looking at the news or hassling our parents about hand-washing but instead working through one of the great existential questions of ours or anyone else’s lifetime: Which of these things would you fuck, which would you marry, and which would you kill. We’re going to be doing these for at least a few days, in an attempt to temporarily distract ourselves from the endless horror and uncertainty of living on Earth in this particular moment. If you have a good idea for a FMK, email me*—I’m 100 percent taking suggestions and requests.
Perhaps, much like us bloggers at Jezebel, you’re currently crammed into your apartment and settling into the idea that you will be staying there for a long time. There are probably a limited number of objects and/or humans for you to interact within the space that now encompasses your entire world. Maybe you’re so sick of looking at them you’ve contemplated murder; maybe the Stockholm syndrome has really started to settle in. Crazy shit happens in a crisis!
FMK: Your roommate, your stash of toilet paper, and that last bottle of wine.
Molly: Marry the bottle of wine, fuck my roommate, and kill the toilet paper. I’m not going through this sober, and marrying the bottle will ensure our relationship lasts until through the very end. As I learned from Ask a Prepper dot com just now, you can allegedly make your own toilet paper, so if I killed the TP I’d have the additional bonus of another craft-adjacent hobby to pick up in my spare indoors time. And fuck the roommate, obviously, come on: We’re in this for the long haul, and the only way to stand someone if you’re going to spend that much time in close quarters together is if you’re having a lot of sex.
Megan: My current roommate is my sibling, and so that means that marrying her and fucking her are out of the question, which is fine, as I have no real desire to do either. With that in mind: I will fuck the wine, kill the toilet paper and “marry” my roommate, if we expand our view of “marriage” to represent what my current living situation is, which is basically a roommate who feels comfortable enough with me to pick up the chapstick, lighter, and headphones that I’ve left on the dining table and place them on my dresser while chiding me for leaving them out in the first place.
Other thoughts? Concerns? Here we go. We’ll announced the verdict in our next installment, which will, given the circumstances, probably be pretty soon.