Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated

So now it appears my power, in its infinite wisdom and some incomprehensible sort of logic that was not utterly sodding cracked whatsoever, has seen fit to make me a teleporter of decent range.

Excuse me if I don't volunteer to make use of it for future errands.

All efforts by the universe to the contrary, I am quite alive and, charming though it was, now graced by enough skin to leave the very poorly decorated plastic tent. Oh, and ta for the offer to donate, Mr. Logan. Shame there's apparently some problem with that; to hear some tell it your healing factor would have seen me out of iso in twenty minutes. Nonetheless, the gesture is appreciated. Vision may not be quite back up to par yet, but fortunately the monitor allows for kicking up the font size to a degree from which it would be visible to the nearest orbiting body. Bloody figures this would happen at the start of World Cup, but it was good enough to let me see Mexico kick Iran's arse so I suppose no harm done. Still, I'll be happy when determining which health-encouraging shirt Jennie has chosen for the day is not contigent solely upon my activity-starved imagination.

. . . on the other hand.

So, yes, to reiterate, I am not dead. Indeed, I can only hope death will not contain such stupefying boredom. Also itching.

According to Dr. Moira, the healing factors my two very generous flatmates have donated should see me out by Tuesday. Flattered though I am to have my every whim be catered to by two attractive redheads (admittedly in a somewhat militant manner by the one, though of course I would never say a disparaging word about Dr. Voght, or at least not while I still require constant pain medication), it won't be a moment too soon.

In the meantime: entertain me. I haven't been well, you know.