Off it went. I thought this piece was god-awful while I was writing it, but now it seems mildly amusing.
I’ve got a gazillion e-mail messages and telephone calls to return, but the fatigue is really catching up with me. It’s hard to prioritize work when you’re exhausted and your kid is sick and you’re constantly worried that you haven’t ingested enough olive oil that day, and that you can also get oleic acid from pecans but you don’t really like pecans, and you think that it’s also in cashews and almonds and avocados but you’re really not sure, and maybe olive oil shampoo and body scrub might help, too, but who knows how much olive oil is really in those products, and didn’t a doctor tell me a few years ago that I could put drops of it in my ears to soften the wax—or was that mineral oil?—and maybe that would be a better way of getting it into my system, but, you know, ICK, and is there even any point in ingesting it AT ALL, so is there fresh bread in the house for me to eat with olive oil? and so on.
Jon Friedman wrote me over the weekend to tell me that he made a donation to the Young Survival Coalition in my name. That sort of kindness keeps me going. Along with, you know, a pathological need for attention.