Wasted

There is a double-entendre going on with the title here. It's suppose to refer both to my current state and to the months that have passed since I last wrote. Anything. There's a temptation to leave it at that, honestly. But one does sense a need for an update.

In the last month, I turned an extremely unlikely age, had intercourse on one occasion, read three books in a science fiction trilogy, watched roughly 38 hours of football, learned of two deaths (including Bobby Fischer) and one conception, drank somewhere in the ballpark of 120 beers, revived one old friendship, failed to turn up for one exam, consumed 15+ adderall, drove 500 miles, had one prophetic dream, apologized at least five times, and ate the same meal almost every night.

My prose has not much improved, and neither has my honesty, though I would rate myself a little higher in 2008 for humility than in previous years. This is related to growing older and seeing oneself more in the scheme of things. Which is related to pride.

Introspection is at an all-time low.

I have discovered that I am not the following things: Management material, tan, irresistible, solvent, decisive, unflappable. Though, on a more positive note, it does seem evident that there are some things I'm good at.