The man who signs my checks called me maybe thirty minutes ago. He asked me to come in for “around three hours” and run hot plates to clap-clapping people. That sounded reasonable enough, I guess.

Before I could say, “Nope!” I said, “O.K.”

I . . . agreed to go in and work today, if only for three hours.

This is literally a “call the doctor!” moment here, I’ll have you know. I need to contact a professional immediately and have him or her diagnose my current sickness.

Maybe the treatment options will include “voluntary hibernation.” I’d be all right with that.

I’m killing time by cooking rice and black beans and chick peas. I fried up green, red and yellow peppers with a quarter of an onion, and threw it into the protein-bubbling broth. It’s going to be a swell little meal, just for me.

It is, after all, bulk time.

Time to bulk.

Lord, I’m sorry. I’ll write something later. It will be about protein and my brother. The protein has nothing to do with my brother, although I’m well aware, as I’m sure you are, that he consumes a metric ton of it a day.

He’s training to be a helicopter pilot because they “kill the most people.”

“They’re the ones who come back all fucked up,” he tells me.

Man.

Ding. Rice is done.

I’m going to combine it with a can of black beans and chick peas and peppers three colors of the rainbow.

It’s protein time.

It’s bulk time.