Time-Fill Redux

My flight back from the homeland was terrifying. I am intensely phobic of flying anyhow, so the frenetic jerkings of an unusually weatherful flight just about spelled the end of me. Forget tumbling to an earthbound doom; at some level I know rationally how unlikely that is. On the other hand, the danger that my heart might explode? Too likely. As the plane bucked to and fro last night I wept like a frightened child, biting down on the corner of my Economist to keep myself from screaming out loud. I shuddered and shut my eyes. I wished M. were there; I thought about calling him and my mother to say goodbye. Ultimately unnecessary, as here I am now to write about it, but still I am more or less certain that I lost a few years off my life last night.

My sojourn down south and my near-death-like experience left me in a foul mood. M. took me to dinner upon my arrival and I spent much time staring at walls. My math percentile on the GRE was disappointing, my writing score even more so. (Writing, by God! Isn't that what I do?) I resented M. for having too much fun in my absence, more fun than he ever has in my presence, enough fun to leave him dead tired and more ill than he was a week ago. I ruminated on not getting into graduate school and laboring at my boring job on into a banal perpetuity. Twenty-four hours away from the oppressive homeland have proved a tonic, though: I feel quite a bit better now.

Nonetheless I have a dreadful case of writer's block. I am trying to finish my personal statement for the graduate program before New Year's and I don't believe I have ever produced such a textbook example of hackneyed tripe. (With the possible exception of my GRE.) It is as though I am following some middle-school essay template. I write sentence by sentence and each is stilted beyond all redemption. What is wrong with me? Have I completely forgotten how to write? Maybe I need to blog more.

Apparently I forgot how to write transitions, so now I will say that we are hosting a big ole New Year's party at our apartment again. Rockstar Friend was supposed to drive up from L.A. to DJ, but he flaked. The news of his treachery came on the same day that Bartender Flatmate (who is also DJ Flatmate) learned that his pernicious new employer had scheduled him to work until 2am on December 31 and then beginning at 8am on January 1st (is that even legal?), meaning in essence that M. will need to man the turntables for more than four hours on end, a feat that will at best try and at worst exceed his abilities. Now he is playing record after record with his headphones on, singing along to the pop. He used to disdain pop, music snob that he is, but he has learned after many an unsuccessful party that the kids want to hear New Order, they want to hear Kelis, they want to hear Outkast, they want to hear The Cure and other hits from 1 year ago or 10 years ago or 20, not the too-hip underground dance stuff coming out of Brazil these days. I think he secretly relishes the pop. Under no circumstances will he play Kylie Minogue or Shakira, however.

Why am I telling you this? Because it is a way to procrastinate, and blogging is among the many fruits of my bad habit. There was a reason why I used to blog regularly during my last year in school, back in those ingenuous days of this website's doomed predecessor. There were always papers to write, and so there was always blogging nonsense to write. Very offensive nonsense, apparently.

My god, it is a million ayem. How am I not sleepy?

A happy end of 2006 to all. For me it was a boring year, a stable year, ultimately a decent year. If all goes as planned I'll be back to blather on the other side of it.

Postscript: I don't know why my post from mid-month is cut off, or if it only shows up that way on my computer. Either way, bugger Blogger.