I wish I was reading something fancier right now. Something more ‘high’ culture. Something with literary cred and novelistic hoity-toit. Something that would make you—my curious analytical reader—raise your eyebrows, whistle discretely under your breath and exclaim, somewhat dramatically, ‘my stars, she is but an enlightened dame!’

I could lie. I could pretend I am reading one of the many tomes on the ‘to read’ pile that literally constitutes my bedside table. Something like The Power by Naomi Alderman or Emily Wilson’s translation of The Odyssey or the new Zadie Smith or the old Hilary Mantel. Or something I’ve read in the not-so-distant past, blurring the space/time continuum for the sake of impressing you, my unknown critical reader. Like Audre Lorde, whose collected works I recently devoured as part of a deep dive into intersectionality, or David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest, which I read a few years ago—for what felt like a few years—despite the wrist strain I developed propping it up in bed and continually shuttling back and forth to the endnotes.