Would you rather be up to date on pop culture trends or today’s date?

Would you rather eat the mystery frozen Tupperware meal in your freezer, or have another conversation about “what’s for dinner” with your significant other?

Would you rather put on jeans for the first time in 11 months, or continue to have all your social interaction via Zoom?

Would you rather send your kid back to school so they can die of Covid, or send your kid back to school so they can die from a school shooter?

Would you rather work your same shitty job with the same hours and demands but entirely online, or admit your father was right and start studying for the LSATs?

Would you rather send that one email you have to send for work today, or deep clean all the grout in your entire home?

Would you rather still be attending a weekly Zoom happy hour, or have an extra hour each week where you only stare at a blank section of wall?

Would you use this time to finally read Marcel Proust’s In Search of Lost Time, or buy 18 new books that you also will not read and by the time they arrive you will have forgotten you bought them in the first place?

Would you rather never hear about Trump again, or have Trump go to prison and see justice served but hear about it every day for another four years?

Would you rather be screamed at by your screen time report, or be screamed at by your daily step count?

Would you rather be forced to watch more of The Bachelor where they talk about how hard quarantine was for them, or be forced to be a contestant on The Bachelor and not be able to stop talking about how hard quarantine was for you?

Would you rather finally see a therapist, or be inconsolable every time an animal celebrity you follow on Instagram dies?

Would you rather give up your GameStop, Blackberry, and AMC stock, or give up access to your parents' HBO Max, Apple TV, and Netflix accounts?

Would you rather forget the word for shower (“up-bath”), or forget the word for air conditioner (“room fridge”)?

Would you rather have lost one of your hot years, or trade your soul so your body looks as young as ever but there’s a painting in your attic that reveals the withered and decrepit husk that is your post-quarantine self?

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