Hear me, people. I give now to you a list.

To you.

Just for you.

It is this list:

- Galileo Galilei

- Isaac Newton

- Rene Descartes

- Oscar Wilde

- Carl Sagan

I could go on.

I won't.

I could.

I shan't.

What is the significance of this list?

I have been ill. For two weeks, I was suicidally depressed. As soon as the depression lifted last week, my body fell apart, and I spent nearly thirty hours in hospitals or under the care of my personal doctors. Once those problems were brought under control, one more problems was discovered.

The men on this list had also been ill. Some of them chronically; others acutely, but with unusual conditions.

I don't like saying it, but I think I've had significantly more health problems for a guy my age than most others in modern fancypants developed nations.

That's where the list comes in.

It is not unusual for we men of genius to fall ill with greater frequency than the common man. Some of the greatest minds the universe has ever known were trapped inside bodies unsuitable to sustain them.

When you have a brain like Newton's, Wilde's, or mine, you learn that its needs are greater than the needs of the kind of brain you're likely to find in, say, your own head.

Its caloric requirements are astronomical. I estimate that my body's total needs come to ten-thousand calories a day. That's the minimum for uninterrupted basic functioning. To get the most out of my brain, that'd have to be bumped up to fifteen-thousand or more. Anything less, and my health is in a decaying orbit, coming closer to disaster every moment, and closer to burning up during re-entry.

This presents the genius with a couple problems.

The first is that we were not given mouths, stomachs, and appetites to keep up with our brains.

The second is that, thanklessly carrying the burden of advancing society, we don't take many breaks, and certainly not to eat. It's better now than it was in the past, as we have food that can be unwrapped and consumed with as few as one hand, but it takes time to venture out to hunt and gather more cereal bars. If Plato's vision of the Philosopher Kings were a reality, this wouldn't be a problem, but those who benefit from our brilliance are also those who are unable to appreciate it, so we make do with what little we have, and in so doing, we face death as a matter of routine.

It has been said that I have a big mouth, but it's clearly not big enough to serve as an orifice through which to sufficiently nourish myself. Even if it were, any time spent using my mouth for eating is time taken away from talking. With each mastication, I risk letting civilization fall back to the Dark Ages. Therefore, I do not eat. Therefore, I fall ill.

I'm certain - yes, certain! - that it is my supreme intellect that repeatedly landed me in the hospital last week.

My arms are bruised where needles were inserted by health care workers who wanted to take things from, or put things in, my body. I was pissing blood. I had full on allergic reactions. My back glowed, swelled, and pulsated while I shook and couldn't breathe, and spoke but made no sense.

The docs still don't know what's to blame, but doses of the meds most likely to have caused these problems were lowered, and I'm starting to feel human again. It was frustrating because it can take a few days to see improvement from a med change, but that seems to be over.

Good.

I still have tremors, but that's probably the lithium. They're stronger than I'd expect given my experience with the stuff, though I'll happily take this over the depression and allergic reactions.

The other problem, and this is far more important, is that my testosterone level has fallen to the point that it's a health risk (168). As guys who've dealt with low testosterone know, it can lead to brittle bones, memory problems, focus problems, difficulties coping with stress, loss of libido, and a bunch of other crap.

Doc is hoping the low testosterone is an acute response to the physical and mental stress of the past month. I'm hoping so, too. Getting tested again on Monday. I expect I'll be back in good health by then, but in the meantime I'll have to endure yet another illness - one that affects 54% of the people on this planet.

Diagnosis: Woman.

Yes. Just when I thought everything was going fine, I've turned into a woman.

Symptoms include crying during romantic comedies while eating avocado ice-cream, thinking I look fat in these jeans, wanting to cuddle, and lying about everything.

But don't weep for me. Don't cry for me, Argentina. I'm not dying of being a woman - I am living with being a woman. And until my testosterone level is returned to normal - naturally or via a testosterone transplant - I am stuck being a woman, and I'm not happy about it, but at least nobody's sticking a needle in my arm, and I think I'm just italicizing things at random now.

Now, Battlestar Galactica.

As the genius convalesces, he finds ways to entertain himself. Possessing vast mental resources, he (or, for the time being, she) can make nearly anything amusing.

At the moment, this genius is amused by watching TV and not throwing up.

The shows most prized by the genius are seasons four of Doctor Who and Battlestar Galactica. The genius has seen nary a show more better than these two, and especially in their fourth seasons.

While watching last week's episode of BSG, I noticed something awesome. It's a total boo-boo. It's not a spoiler, either, so don't worry.

There's, like, this woman who's hooked up to one of those hospital beep-machines (sound familiar?), and, for a couple seconds, her beep-machine's readout is displayed clearly to the audience.

Most people would miss it, but my calorie-sucking brain didn't.

I speak of the date on the readout. This screenshot is taken from 34:02 of the recording I yanked down through the bittorrent - look at the text up top and center:

Egads!

Your eyes deceive you nary a bit, my subjects. As I live and breathe and lack testosterone, the date on that machine says it's May 27, 2006.

Do you know what this means? Has you did figure it out?

It means THE PEOPLE WHO MAKE BATTLESTAR GALACTICA ARE NOT PERFECT.

I shall speak nary a word more on the subject.

I bid thou tah-tah.