I collapsed on my bed this afternoon and picked up a literary journal lying next to it that I've been meaning to read. I opened it up randomly and began reading -- what else -- an essay, exceptionally well-written, by a man in his sixties with severe cerebral palsy. I got about halfway through the essay before realizing that I wasn't reading a journal specifically about disability but had, in fact, opened to the only essay in it about disability. And I realized that I'm tired of that. I'm tired, today, of that sort of luck.