Let us yeet Rob Bob Robinson into the sun and let him trouble us no more.

Let us yeet Rob Bob Robinson into the sun and let him trouble us no more.
It’s been one year since I was last hospitalized. This is amazing.
I feel like we’re all sort of fumbling in the fog, trying to find out way out of what is going to be the worst mass disabling event of our lifetimes–and as I’ve found out over the past almost-four years, there is no way out, there is only through and there is no end. Therefore, I give you a few waypoints that may help you on your journey.
Ugly leggings, balls, and trauma. Not necessarily in that order.
I write about books, culture, disability, and whatever else strikes my fancy. I have many opinions.
I am a two-time Hugo Award finalist, in 2017 for Best Fan Writer and in 2021 for my essay “George R.R. Martin Can Fuck Off Into the Sun, Or: The 2020 Hugo Awards Ceremony (Rageblog Edition)” in the Best Related Work category.
Please do not offer me medical advice. I have something like 10 doctors and it’s already pretty challenging to keep up with what they want me to do. I do not have the bandwidth to process any advice that doesn’t come from one of my doctors, no matter how well meant the advice may be. Thank you!
Here’s some wishlists in case you want to buy me something.
I try to keep them reasonably up to date.