An expired jar of Mayonnaise.
Five o’clock shadow.
Gooey lettuce that has been in the refrigerator crisper for two months.
Mitch McConnell’s chin pooch.
String together all of the wine bottles you’ve emptied in the past half-year and drape them over yourself.
A famous landmark from a place you had vacation plans for but had to cancel due to the pandemic.
Try to predict the next horrible thing that’s going to happen and go as that.
The fog you’ve been in since February.
Sprinkle Cheetos dust on yourself, rub grease on your face, and say you’re a pair of sweatpants.
Get yourself a handbell and a sandwich board. On the sandwich board write “the end is near” while shouting random Bible verses.
A Xanax.
Build a creepily precise, to-scale replica of your neighborhood, then fill it with water. When people ask, tell them you’re climate change.
A ballot, surronded on all sides by a series of long and pointy poles with tips that are on fire. What are you, your neighbors will ask. I’m a ballot, you say. They’ll say, but you’re so hard to access. Then launch into a lengthy, and well-rehearsed speech about America’s history of voter suppression.
A life preserver filled with holes.
Leave a chunk of jelly donut on your face and tell everyone you’re Tuesday.
