The end of the year, the end of saddam.

Listening to: The Heart is a Lonely Hunter -- The Anniversary

I'm much more comfortable writing than speaking. At my job, I have to explain a lot of things to a lot of people. Oh, to write it down. I can gather my thoughts, logically arrange my argument, put it on paper, then go back and correct it all. No pauses. No hiccups. No searching for the right word. Writing is sophisticated, gentlemanly.

And yet, it's imperfect. Never truly impetuous, always scripted. Never urgent.

I would argue that writing always steals something. Sometimes you have this exciting, interesting idea that appears in your head, and you need to blurt it out, capture, define it before it leaves. Writing cannot do that. In fact, this entry started as such a thought, impelled by a passage in Salinger's Franny and Zooey, about, well, the same thing.

And, you know, things just aren't coming out like they should. Self-fulfilling prophecy. I hope you get the gist, because that all I ever had to give, anyhow.

Past my bedtime

Listening to: I Will Play My Game Beneath the Spin Light -- Brand New

Is it wrong that all I can think to write about is work?

Well, at best, I have to go with a variation.

I had dinner tonight @ Chik-fil-a, post buying some last minute gifts for office staff. Pretending it was a breakfast run, I picked up a paper. When I finally got to the comics, I realized that I was skimming through them document-review style, instead of actually reading them.

Yes, work has destroyed my sense of humor.

I'm also reminding myself that "liking the people I work with" isn't a good enough reason to stay at a job. Because, you know, I like a lot of people. I'm not that particular, honestly.

I'm def. an acquaintance slut. Probably a friend slut, too. But not enough people want to be my friend for me to figure this out, for sure. Sad. Sad. Sad.

That, and he's got issues with voice modulation.

Listening to: Sister Winter by Sufjan Stevens

So, I work with this partner in our other office occasionally. Very nice guy. He calls to get updates on the case every day. Nice.

However, I've got a strange issue with him. We'll talk, he'll ask questions, I'll give answers, whatever. Then, I've answered his question, and I think we're done talking. But there's been no signal that the conversation's over. So, we just kind of sit there. I mean, seriously, no one says anything for about a minute. After the awkward silence is just too much to bear, I break down and say "uh, so, is there anything else I can update you on?", to which he'll reply "oh, no, I'm good."

It's v. awkward.

I think, next time, I'm going to wait him out. I will win. Oh yes, I will win.

Monday, 946p

I've had the pleasure of studying circadian rhythms. Although it's chiefly known as a theory pertaining to the natural ebb and flow of energy throughout the day, a corollary is that the rhythms can be manipulated. If you change the length of the day, organisms react. There's something of a hard reset whenever the sun comes up. If you're pulling an all nighter, it's always the hardest right before dawn... when the dawn comes, you get an artificial rush of energy, because your body is tricked into thinking it's awake.

It's just another example about how little control we exert over our lives.

Or maybe that's the skeptic in me.

I did read an interesting article in the Times this weekend; it's a variation on the above theme. Some highfalutin economist hath decreed that 90% of our economic condition depends on the country and circumstances we were born in. You run a hedge fun, eh? Not so much if you were born in Mongolia.

Listening to: Several Arrows Later, by Matt Pond PA.

The bottom line of the article was a wake-up call/plea. The idea: you're privileged. You make a shit ton of money. You're reading the NYTimes Magazine for fun, for free. Enjoy your wealth, but realize that most of it isn't because you're so freaking brilliant, but because you were born in the U.S. -- and, oh yeah, that means you should tithe.

Listening to: One More Rocket, by Andy Fairweather Low.

Nah, we have little to no control over our fate. But, I have much to complete control over my TiVo.

The universe rebalances itself again. Thank God.

One more thing

Through reading my past blog entries (on other blogs, natch).

I've discovered.

I mourn the passage of time.

Months and months later

And there's hope.

As in, I just read some of my old blog entries, and I thought myself fairly clever. In the vain, mere hope that I may later find myself clever again, gentle readers, I've decided to blog again. At least for one night.

First, an update. I did, indeed, attend a wedding in Austin. It did not go well, dear friends, in that the girl I went left me stranded at the reception to hit on some other guy. Who, to her credit, she is still dating. Still, it was an annoying wedding.

There's been a wedding since then. That I attended. And in that one, I was locked out of my hotel room so that someone else could use my room for unspecified activities. Also annoying.

Listening to: "Everything Hits at Once", by Spoon.

So, I was in quite a funk on the drive home from work today. A bad mood, fo sho. I turned on the CD player, hoping that it would brighten the mood. I went from "Everybody's gotta learn sometime" to "Everything Hits at Once", to "Everything I once had". When I had an ephiphany.

Brace yourself.

I really shouldn't listen to my friggin depressing music when I'm already in a bad mood.

Now, it's time to sum up the last eight months. What have I learned? How have I grown?

Somehow, I have further sharpened my acerbic wit, become further disillusioned with the world and my miniscule place in it, and have become a bitter, bitter old man in a youngerish body.

Eh, not exactly what I had in mind. Life throws you some curveballs. What can you do?