Guilt. I got a "hey, how's it going there? everything OK?" e-mail from a friend. I'm supposed to be shipping her some artwork, and haven't done it yet. But that's not the source of the guilt. I replied, (relevant portion only) "I need surgery, the dr thinks it's cancer." There was more, but once you hit that line, I'm pretty sure the brain just stops. It takes a bit to absorb such a concept, at least it takes me a bit to absorb a concept like that. I don't think anyone ever expects that kind of a response to that kind of e-mail. It's like the "hey, how are ya?" we all casually toss out. We don't really want to know how everyone is, but it's not quite a rhetorical question. There's a social contract underpinning the asking and answering of such questions, and I feel like I broke it. Thus, guilt.
Mortality. OTOH, I really do need surgery and the doctor really does think it's cancer. I find myself thinking things like "I'd like to accomplish that before I die," with the accompanying feeling that the named event will happen sooner rather than later. I'm trying my best not to give my morbid feelings any credence. Rationally, there's no reason to believe that my life expectancy is any shorter this week than it was last week, when I had no such sense of impending doom. Of course, last week was before the diagnosis.
Uncorked? I've decided that it's impossible for me to not write about political stuff, but also that this is not, generally, the place to do it. The solution to this seeming dilemma is to post lengthy comments around the blogosphere. I think Ambra may get sick of me, soon, but most days won't be like today. Lively discussions at VodkaPundit and BelmontClub are engaging as well.
I've also been reading Andrew Sullivan but that just makes my head want to explode. Seriously, after reading Wretchard's analysis of NYTimes data on the Iraqi insurgency, it's hard to believe that Andrew himself believes things are going as badly as he says. I'm not saying Andrew is being disingenuous, it's just that it doesn't make any sense to me. Someone's living in a fantasy world here, and I'm pretty sure it's not Wretchard.
Nervous... First debate tonight. My nerves are jangling. GWB looked great in his recent interview with Bill O'Reilly, whereas Kerry turned orange over the weekend. Who knows what we're actually going to see tonight?
More later, perhaps. Time to see to dinner.
Update, post debate:
Relieved. Glad that's over. I couldn't focus and found it tremendously boring. I was spitting out policy points and a bit annoyed with GWB for all the things he didn't say. (Hello, Mr. Kerry? You voted against the Kyoto Treaty!) OTOH I think GWB managed to get in a quite a few zingers. Kerry needed to knock it out of the park and he didn't, so therefore, he loses. All in all, I don't think this will have any affect on the race at all.
Enlightened. Wretchard (God bless him) must've detected my pain because he has expertly fisked Andrew Sullivan's "Iraq is the new Algeria" tirade that made my head hurt earlier.
For the record: substantial fatigue, early signs of depression, sore throat, fuzzy voice.
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