I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to do anything right now. Waking up in the final act of 2022, I’m rarely eager to swallow my supplements, peel off my pajamas, or bathe (although please don’t worry, because I almost always do). At breakfast, I blankly stare at a spoon, lodged in a tepid mound of oatmeal. A small yet direct voice, which must belong to my stomach, speaks to my brain and says: “Brain, tell Arm to reach Hand towards Spoon.” Following orders, “Hand” is keenly aware of gravity’s weighty force, pressing on it, challenging it to quit the mission assigned to it by “Stomach.”
"I’m not a sad, depressed sack of coal after all." HA!