I’m gainfully employed. I might have my ‘termination of contract’ letter sitting in my inbox, but let’s ignore that.

I’m gainfully employed and it is stressing me out. Big time. I have a head cold, which I think is due to the fact that I’m American and my body failed to realise that I wasn’t actually in America over Thanksgiving and didn’t actually need an excuse to get four days straight in bed and avoid relatives and in-laws. That’s what Skype’s invisible mode is for.

Anyway, employed, sick, stressed, tired, oh and I’m living in a fantastic artist colony in France, where I can’t seem to either enjoy myself or get any work done for fear of missing out on either enjoying myself or getting work done. So instead I’m sitting in bed, filling up rolls and rolls worth of pink (???) toilet paper with either snot or the remnants of my brain that are flowing gloriously and freely right out my nose.

But at least I get sick leave. But I don’t care – because I like my job. Seriously, what is my problem? I don’t want to be sick, I don’t want to lay in bed and get rest and command my artist friends to get me pain au chocolate from the bakery across the street and sugar-binge till I’m better.  I want to resolve that damned phylogeny, I want to come up with some awesome story about how tree-ferns jumped all around South-East Asia, riding on the backs of Pterodactyls, and I want to write a paper or three about it. And I want cool graphics showing how it all happened, in cartoony form. Now.

And I don’t want anyone to give me a penny to do it. That takes all the fun out of it and adds all the pressure. I have enough pressure in my sinuses, thanks. I don’t need it from the Swedish Research Council (like they care).

I’m sick. I’m going back to bed. And avoiding gainful employment for the foreseeable future.  More pink toilet paper, please.