I AM: in bed, with a heating pad and dried mango slices balanced on my chest. HOW IS IT I ask, that during by far the busiest and most important week in a while (tonight a final exam to administer I have had to creatively take online, tomorrow, 24 hours in NYC, being interviewed by Jenna Sauers at the Bookforum offices for their podcast series, meeting with more writer-friends in a small period than I ever see, and then reading at St. Marks that evening, then Monday the week at Naropa) my pinched-nerve decides to go FUCKING POSTAL? I am hilarious, ironic, and a bad text. Yesterday in the car pain, pain, pain, so much pain, pain, pain, so much so I cannot hook or unhook my bra or lower to a toilet seat. Yesterday took two Percocet and was up all night with imaginary things crawling all over me and sick as a dog, the pain level not even lowered. Like, I'm 80 years old or something. Emergency trip to Duke Spine Center this AM. I was granted the nirvana of pain meds, a 6-day steroid pac, am laying, and waiting for magic to occur. MAGIC. The good doctor said that by tomorrow I will feel like a superwoman. I'm interpreting that as meaning that by tomorrow I might be slightly high, NYC. If you see me out and about and my lipliner goes a little out of bounds, or I'm a little bright-eyed, don't judge me, more than you already do. Love me. All I want is for you to love me.