My Blood Hurts.

I feel like a walking ache, and I've blown my nose approximately 10,000 times today, which I'm sure all of my interviewees found irresistibly attractive. I probably have Japanese B encephalitis or something horrifically unlucky like that, so if I die in my sleep, someone make sense of these 70 interviews. I was going to say something about the sex-gender matrix and domesticity and discrimination, but you'll figure it out.

UPDATE: I survived, although I woke up every half hour coughing until I breathlessly passed out again. On literally any other day, I'd say fuck this and I would curl up with a papaya and a glass of orange juice and David Foster Wallace's Oblivion (so good, and the last of the books I've bought here!) and refuse to move. Unfortunately, tonight is the night that a bunch of my amazingly sweet interviewees are planning a party for me, and invited me to come do more interviews at 4, then have dinner at 7, then have a party at 10, then 'rampage' until the wee hours of the morning, then spend the night there before my meetings on Sunday. I refuse to cancel even if I'm having a bit of trouble 'breathing' and 'talking,' although I might bail early and splurge on a cab to take me back to the guesthouse, because there I can moan and whimper without scaring the hell out of some Filipino family that doesn't deserve to have a stranger die in their home when they were just trying to be nice.