The Eagle's Scream Quarantine: Week 5

Updated: May 22, 2020

Strange homemade recipes, lonely birthdays, and Houseparty. Enjoy the fifth round of journal entries from our very own staff, giving a closer look into the life of a self-isolated teenager.


Want to send in your own journal entry? Contact us at erhsjournalism@gmail.com


Lola

I'm smiling but I'm actually dead on the inside

Like every week in quarantine thus far, this past week was a rollercoaster, both for my emotions and my sleep schedule. If my family is reading this, I’d like to publicly apologize for yesterday’s rampage, but discovering a quarantine-mask-tanline across my face was a little too much to handle.


But it hasn’t all been bad! Unable to go to bookstores or libraries, I’ve been reading all of the paperbacks shoved in my dad’s office. Steve Martin’s Born Standing Up was glorious, and I’m making my way through Dostoevsky’s The Idiot, but the book is so old and its elderly stank so overpowering that I can only make it through a few chapters at a time.


I also decided to make this past week an experiment, an adventure, and it panned out surprisingly well. I thought to myself, what if I was one of those freaks who dealt with their issues by working out… all the time? So I did! Wednesday through Sunday, I hyped myself up on a curious cocktail of hiking around Occidental College and doing Bikram yoga on my back porch, every day, for five days straight. I thought it would tire me out more and somewhat fix my sleep schedule… after all, it’s harder to avoid sleeping when you’re physically tired. But it turns out exercising only gave me more energy, and I started to develop the bad habit of “going to bed” at 11, waking up at midnight to do more yoga to make myself more tired, then texting with friends for a few hours, until finally falling into a stress-coma of action-packed dreams. My favorites are down below:

 Robert DeNiro impression.
Me attempting zen
  1. I’m in my father’s friend’s beach house… but also, somehow, English class. The entire volleyball team and a friend of a friend is there (shout out to Santi). Long story short, an old, shirtless man darts into the room and yells, “200 DOLLARS TO SHAVE MY NIPPLES!” and I, of course, being the business-savvy one in the room, immediately volunteer. Santi coaches me through shaving the man’s disgusting forest of chest hair, but I wake up before receiving my payment.

  2. I had this dream the night directly after my DP Art Exhibition and directly before my final DP Spanish Oral Exam. This context is necessary because in my dream, I zoom call my art teacher (shout out to Ms. Murphy) and we conduct my exhibition review in coherent back-and-forth Spanish. I think I said “vale” about eight times.

  3. The last one I can remember was just a generic, garden-variety zombie apocalypse-kind of dream. I’ve had dreams before about defending my house from monsters (they’re disturbingly violent, too), but this time I was running around in a Pacific Rim/Mad Max-style wasteland with a grocery cart, hunting for some kind of rare Greek vase. I don’t get it either.


Morning hike!

In short, throughout this past week going to sleep became such an arduous process that I upped my workout time more and more, to the point where this past Saturday I walked from my house in Highland Park to the Pasadena Bridge and back. I listened only to Oh Hello: The P’dcast and the Euphoria soundtrack on loop to feed my angst.

I later calculated the walking distance to be somewhere around ten miles. The first five were actually excellent— getting fresh air is always wonderful, and my Fitbit practically had an orgasm— but the last half of my walk I felt drained and detached from the world. Perhaps it was also just the general experience of walking around in public that was exhausting:


Reasons Why Walking Around in Public During Quarantine Was Not Fun

  • I saw a cute guy on his run, and instead of smiling at him Like An Adult, I crossed the street because he wasn’t wearing a mask. What a waste. I’ll wait for you, Tulane-Sweatshirted Mystery Man.

  • As I was walking across the Pasadena bridge, I sang along to my Euphoria soundtrack, loudly, thinking none of the passing cars could hear me. However, I did not account for the biker that whizzed past just as my voice cracked and I screeched “TRASH” at the top of my lungs. Just to be clear: I was not calling the biker trash, I was calling my voice trash. Okay? Okay. Let’s move on.


I also had some fun shenanigans in the kitchen this w