1.       This week six different medical paraprofessionals and three computers asked me for my date of birth. My date of birth hurts because it will be forgotten, and the date of my death hurts because it goes unrecognized every year.  

2.       My hips feel like an accordion that a demon monkey is playing.

3.       My back feels like an egg with a baby pterodactyl inside trying to claw its way out. I mean I couldn’t be better.

4.       MRI, DMV, and department meeting all on the same day as my manuscript gets rejected.  

5.       When Everybody Hurts by REM comes on the radio, I want to punch Michael Stipe in the nuts and force him, at gunpoint, to sing the chorus again. I feel like what that chorus would sound like.  

6.       Like a version of Ground Hog Day in which Bill Murray’s character was in a car accident yesterday but has to go to work today anyway. I mean I’m fine, and you?  

7.       Sort of the physical equivalent of the distress I felt when some dude filmed and distributed nudes of my daughter.

8.       You don’t want to know. I mean I’m good, thanks.  

9.       I feel the way that dude who sold nudes of my daughter would have felt if I’d caught up with him, knowing I could exact revenge with no legal penalties. 

10.   You really don’t want to know.