My CoviDiary: The October Entries

Illustration by Max Burbank

EDITOR’S NOTE: Below, find the latest diary entry, then other October content. Click here for the September entries. Click here for the August entriesClick here for the July entriesClick here for the June entries. Click here for the May entries. Click here for the April entries. Click here for all March entries . My CoviDiary is reprinted, with the author’s permission, from its original publication via

Oh, and by the by, we’ve stopped deleting the “uc” part of Mr. Burbank’s liberal use of the “F” word because, well, when he invokes it, it’s in the service of a righteously angry response to the times we’re living in. So, you know, Trigger Alert: Spicy language abounds, should you choose to proceed ahead.


BEFORE YOU CONTINUE, LEARN A LITTLE BIT ABOUT MAX BURBANK | Burbank is a freelance writer living in Salem, Massachusetts. His work has been published by,,, and the literary magazine websites (because he is both hoity and toity, but neither enough to get in the print versions) and Once upon a time, before the Internet, he sold science fiction stories to the legendary Algis Budrys for Tomorrow: The Magazine of Speculative Fiction. Until recently, he was the political satirist for Chelsea Now, where he won a PRESTIGIOUS first-place award for editorial cartooning from the New York Press Association, because gosh darn it, he draws real good, too. A huge, steaming pile of Max’s comedy writing can be found archived at Max is available for freelance work, both writing and illustration, because he likes to eat on occasion.


My CoviDiary: 10/06/2020: 27 Things I Will Not Be Talking About In This Entry

BY MAX BURBANK | Here’s my sense of the moment; You, like me, like in fact all of us, as in everyone worth mentioning, despite what pleasure and catharsis can be take come to, nevertheless sometimes need a break. I invite you to reread that sentence, as it is a doozy, and a little hard to follow, but I tell myself it makes readers invest more if you make them work a little, or just quit reading, and it’s not as if I’ll know, either way. I’d try to make myself a bit clearer in the second draft, but I made a vow on that long ago night my parents were murdered in an alleyway to never under any circumstances write a second draft of anything, and also to become a creature of the night, as criminals are a superstitious, cowardly lot.





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