A few days ago I tried to write a post in the throes of a migraine, which I didn’t judge to be especially bad. I had to stop writing when the icepick in my head became too severe to see clearly, and I couldn’t sit upright (or anything approximating upright) any longer. The next day, I was more than a bit horrified when I opened this draft and started to correct the errors, since the post looked more like a herd of wildlife had stampeded across my keyboard than like an actual sentient being had set out to say something intelligible. After about 10 minutes of correcting, I stopped, too demoralized and headache-y to try to decipher any more of what I had written.

Tonight I had an idea. Rather than trying to finish cleaning up the post, and rather than complete it- as astoundingly poignant as my thoughts on the topic would be for you to read- I thought it might be even more interesting for you to get a glimpse of my brain on migraine. In fairness, this has already been prettied up quite a bit, and this was attempted on a day when I thought I was well enough to write in the first place- already a level of functionality above a truly “bad” day for me.

But here, for your reading enjoyment (if you are a masochistic type), is the draft of the beginning of the post (cringe with me, not at me):

I loove this question, which pervaades socoity, but is especially poignant and painful w? ith ou painful with cdhow o ouine y defunic pain follks: “So what do you do?” Meaninng ” ” rrself? How are you really?oua e re hehniverse/?”
What is your placeisn t

And if your aree chronciab;y ill, the ansewwer is ? ” Nothing.”

I am nothing . I do nthing. I feel liek nothing, ki contirid\bet nkting. I am worth notinhngs. In a world complromprised f doers ond achieverers, the chronicalyy ill ar faillers. We do notiing. We survivalle- a hurcuxculean feat, but one that doesn’t garner a paycjhjeck or earn an award. It earns no acccolades and gets ni props. Sure, it keeps you out ofn hospital, on a good day, but even that is truly beyond your beyond your control- and even it is wasn’t , it hardly makes for scintiliattining cocktail tallk.

So, wat do I do? I can tell yo uwhat I usedd to do. I can tel you what I wish I did. But what i reve allly do is rpretty boring. Why this is the this the getting to koow-you-question is beynd me, but it eliably is. So what is the right answer?

Sometimes I make up stuff. Smetimes I tell peple what I couldd have b een. Sometimes I am honest adn I say I d nothng. That is sure a buzz kill, but it’s also my kind of my kinnd of in-yor-fec- answwer. Like if you wabt to aske me a stupid run-of-the-mill question I will give you such an honest unexpected answer that youwon’t know what to do what to dowith it. Conversation over. Becausee you obviously weren’t ansking a qesuion you wanted to know an answer to anyway.