A study conducted on a control group of me, myself and I, has found that I am immune to coronavirus as I already have no taste.
The wide array of disappointing men that I have the misfortune to *interact* with has given me the appropriate antibodies to render me immune to the respiratory disease that has quite literally taken the nation's breath away.
I have suffered this perverse symptom of coronavirus for my entire sorry existence, and whilst me and my therapist attempt to decode the various psychological complications that have led me to this acquired taste palette, it remains the fact that I am able to dodge this pandemic with the agility awarded to me by my propensity for trash.
My medical condition is as follows:
I have liaised with, and not limited only to,
men who use the cry/laugh emoji,
men who enjoy musical theatre,
men who are 'trying out' stand up comedy,
will from the inbetweeners reincarnate
and the most sinister of all, estate agents. - rupi kaur (could be)
So yes, I have no taste. Coronavirus, do your worst. I'm already irreparably damaged.
But, I ask you, dear reader, at what cost. Yes, I will not be subject to a rather deadly disease, but there are boys that I can't un-shag, and willies I can't un-see.
Who is the real victim in this mess? Is it your nan, who is shielding for 18 months? Or is it me, who, even after this pandemic has subsided, will still be plagued by a taste in men that is as disturbing as it is noxious.
Is it worth it in the end?
This is my story.
By Sophie Peachey