There's this thing people talk about after conventions: "con crud." You get home, you're exhausted, sleep-deprived, hollowed out, your skull is full of snot and regrets, there's a high-pitched eeeeee where sound should be and somehow despite every sign and portent of the vast universe conspiring to signal that you ought to crawl into a deep dark crevasse and become one with the light-shunning lichen until both God and man forget your previous life among the mortals-- *you still have to go to work.*
The arts and academia; or, I did a thing; OR, wow brain still fuzzy ow
Katherine Crighton 