I was reading Esmè Weijun Wung’s recounting of Kristen Arnett’s wedding, and I felt this phantom limb feeling I get sometimes reading about writers. Writers feel like a group I could maybe be part of, maybe, if I didn’t have a kid, or five animals, or an addict/hoarder husband, or if I was less damaged, or if I could improve my executive functioning, or if I had a quiet place to write outside of the mayhem of my home. I can never seem to get my home close to anything even approaching functional. I’m always running at it from behind. When would I possibly write?

But I am also aware of things, like, I do all the free NYT and WaPo games, almost every day. That’s a lot of crosswords. And I don’t have paid work! I started this blog and I thought I understood what my disability meant because I wasn’t going to search for work but I’m still only starting to get it.

I saw a violent scene of the Sopranos by accident last night and then I slept like shit and had nightmares. My cat got a dental today so I mostly just waited for the vet to call. And that was basically my day. I did a few other things: I cooked some old ass artichokes I wasn’t sure if I should eat especially after consulting reddit. They actually were pretty good. I got the animal water fountain functioning again. I got caught up on the WaPo crosswords, which are really the LA Times crosswords, which are the crosswords that all the Gannett newspapers run. One would think the Bezos could find his own crossword maker, but no. Anyway, that was my whole day. And I’m fucking exhausted. Laying on the couch in a heap exhausted.

I want to be able to do more, but I am very limited. I have another sleep study coming up in April which, could, hypothetically lead to some new treatment that gets my energy closer to that of an average chap. But I know not to hope too hard for that.