Hence the absence from work. It feels like the long week­end burned me out, and I need another one. Thank god it’s already Wednesday.

Really, it’s prob­a­bly just a mild stom­ach bug, caus­ing my body to reject every­thing but very dry, thinly sliced toast that comes in packs of eight, named after the stage name of Australian opera singer Helen Porter Mitchell. I sus­pect that I’ll also be able to con­sume col­la­gen processed from pork skin, cat­tle bones, and cat­tle hide, but I’m still wait­ing for it to set in the freezer.

I feel so help­less when I’m like this. I gen­er­ally don’t worry about much, but health is the only thing that I can’t look at cere­brally. I’m not even com­fort­able writ­ing this. It just keeps mak­ing me think of how bad I feel. Too nau­se­ated to fall asleep. Too tired to do any­thing else.