I went into work today, was there for about an hour, the whole time spent downloading a voice file to transcribe that was taking an insanely long time to download. There wasn't anything else to do, and my boss saw that I was clearly sick, and so I came home. I napped a lot, watched a bunch of dirty videos on veoh (so much better than youtube), and drank lots of warm liquids. I really hate being able to think about nothing but my body, that to try to maintain my attention for anything other than suburban boys stripping on webcams just is impossible.
I did however read this article about the Senate vote on gay marriage, and came across this quote: "All over the country, married heterosexual couples are shaking their heads and wondering how exactly the prospect of gay marriage threatens the health of their marriages," said ...
And even before I got to the said part, I was wondering which Senator would be level-headed enough to say this (you know, what Senators are supposed to be since they are a little more removed from the electoral process, only being elected every six years), and I could think of only one, and yes, it was that one, Russell Feingold.
Could you imagine how good it could be if he were President? Rumor has it he is considering running, but as with any Democrat running for the nomination (why waste the money and energy?), his chances are probably futile because of Hillary. For obvious reasons, it'd be nice to see her, a her, hold that office. But it would also be really nice if she suddenly disappeared tomorrow, making it possible for a progressive (like Feingold!) to be nominated.
I talk about my body in this forum a lot, but normally in ways that I am more happy to do so, that that is almost by choice, that decision to chronicle my sexual self, and there is a pleasure from that also, from the retelling, but this method of bodily documenation is not fun and yet I can think of nothing else, am prevented from doing so by this illness which not only shrinks my mental energy, but consumes even that small size it is shrunk too, leaving nothing but bleary-eyed, almost rote fascination with things like Russ Feingold and boys stripping in their bedrooms.