In four years, I have not missed so much time. But what can I do? I am sick. My stomach hurts, my head hurts, and I can’t maintain six straight hours of consciousness.
I guess I feel guilty because I am writing. I’ve been eating toast and chicken broth for three days, I can’t fix Hope food without wanting to throw up, but I can write. So I must not be that sick.
To hell with that. If I could go to the bathroom when I had to, if I could take naps or even put my head down as needed, I could go to work. But I can’t. So they can cope without me.
Besides–I’d rather be writing anyway.