Obvious tragedies aside, the last few months have been nothing short of an introvert’s ideal state of existence. You can talk to who you want, when you want, one person at a time. The days start and end without pressure. Things are quiet. Cocktail hours and networking events are all but dead and buried. It took a little more than a couple weeks for a few bad extroverts among us to start Gadsdening out, give them Buffalo Wild Wings or give them death. Pro tip: you can have both in short succession if you really put your mind to it. That old axiom at least holds up under the relentless stress of ordinary inconvenience. Boo-fucking-hoo. I imagine the ghost of Nietzsche’s mustache dusting along through empty Abercrombies and peering out from behind the glass of shuttered hair salons as the weird crossbreed of faux one-percenter motorcyclists and husky-blue-liners pound on the doors, internally conflicted over their presentation as outlaw rebels while also genuflecting to authority. “Free for what?” his mustache would say before slinking back into the ether of infernal oblivion. Maybe there is a Taco Bell in purgatory. Maybe our lesser angels are, at least, nourished on Chalupa Supremes. Maybe there are no hungry ghosts, only hungry mortals shaken by the silence that lingers when the ride suddenly stops.