This is why I made a rule to always write in the morning. It is almost 8:00 p.m. and my thoughts are no clearer now than they were at 8:00 a.m. but I have spent the entire day with the task of writing something hanging over my head. This is no way to spend the last Sunday in February.

I listened to a lecture on the history of reading, not the Monopoly railroad and not the town in England, but on the activity. That was thing. I dozed through a documentary on memory and consciousness. I thought about watching The Oscars but rejected the idea. Reading was way more political than I ever considered before. Memories as physical objects are way more delicate than I ever thought they could be. The act of remembering can alter the proteins that make up a memory. Fascinating.

I’m a little hungover, I think. I did a lot of peopling this week and I’m not big on peopling, not like I used to be. I don’t have much in the way of psychic reserves. I can’t remember details and that stresses me. New people especially stress me. I love sweater weather because then I know I have adequate camouflage for my chest. But in warmer weather, it isn’t always the case. I’m wondering if people can tell I don’t have breasts. Or if they can see the way the scooped out bit.

I have to decide how to work cancer in the conversation. Or if I do. Or if I’m going to lie. Because often, lying is the easiest thing to do. I wish so many people didn’t rely on the question ‘what do you do?’ to start a conversation. There are so many much more interesting things to talk about.

I need to do it more though. I need to put myself in new situations with new people. It’s so goddamned fraught. Maybe the more I do it, the less fraught it will be.

I need to take more risks. And write in the morning. This is no way to spend a day.