She is in bed, her neck is swollen, and the ubiquity of mirrors in her home suddenly bothers her. She doesn’t want to look at herself. She doesn’t want to do anything except talk about her illness. She realizes that no one wants to hear her talk about it continuously. She is dazzlingly boring. To be ill is to encounter one’s own boredom. She tries to be interesting but she fails. Nothing interests her except the news of her body.
She tries to write a blog post hoping that writing would make her interesting again but it doesn’t. Nothing can make her interesting at this moment. She must wait.
Her hands rest on a book she won’t read tonight.