The Week We Got Ill

It’s not just the post-Poetry Day hangover. (We spent most of it drinking chamomile tea, sitting in the lotus position, and facing City Lights, if you must know.) We just got back from our annual physical, and we’re rocking a whole battery of maladies. We've tried homeopathy, Christian Science and Advil. This week, you can’t touch Harriet, nor should you.

SYNESTHESIA. AND POSSIBLY STENDHAL SYNDROME. That’s what you get for hanging out with Maggie Nelson, we’re told.

A RIPPING HANGOVER. Look, we didn’t throw down that hard on Poetry Day, okay? We’ve seen you look worse. But those Jello shooters probably did us in.

ANXIETY. Let’s just say the future of the Nobel Prize in Literature betting pool has us a tad on edge. And we still haven’t sensed any real closure with this mysterious paper-sculpture business. Do we have to wait until everyone’s dead, again?

NERVOUS STOMACH. INSOMNIA. OBSESSIVE BEHAVIOR. Theoretically, that could just be our crush on Ubuweb founder Kenneth Goldsmith acting up again. Or possibly the other one, on Tomas Transtromer. Harriet has a thing for guys who can suffer major strokes and still play one-handed piano recitals. And that’s just the beginning of Transtromer's magic. He's, like, the real-life Chuck Norris. Have you seen our smelling salts lying around?

MILD DEPRESSION. That’s probably because we lost Taha Muhammad Ali, a once-in-a-generation chronicler of the Palestinian condition. He will be missed.

MUSCLE CRAMPS, VERTIGO AND ITCHINESS. We’re trying really hard to grow massive beards, all right?

SEVERE EYE STRAIN. From this extremely in-depth examination of Jorge Carrera Andrade’s Micrograms. It was so worth it.

CARPAL TUNNEL SYNDROME. Because, these days, it’s all happening on Gchat. That’s where will be until this Bruce-Lee-kick-in-the-head hangover wears off. We’ve shut off the sound effects. No emoticons, please.