Crying Baby Airlines
Flying west, I’m never quite sure if the plane is descending or the mountains are rising up to greet me. Stopping at Phoenix, of course, means both cases are true at once.
So, yeah, I’m back in California, ready to petition against my current academic ineligibility (they have a thing against part-time students, I think) and winch myself back up to where I feel comfortable making various pressure-laden decisions. My grandfather has a big ol’ tumor sitting on his pulmonary artery; I’m sad, and don’t particularly feel like blogging much about it. If it’s any comfort, though, I’ve imported all the old blogger entries and am slowly categorizing and posting them into the archives.
Hey, and since I’ve been feeling altogether too much like 14 years old lately, was my school district the only one to be infested by kids who erased gaping sores onto the backs of their hands? I tried it once, and got about two strokes in before realizing it was not only a stupid, ugly form of self-mutilation, but a hideously boring one as well. Perhaps a greater streak of self-hatred would have helped.