It’s really just the sunlight, isn’t it? I really should get evaluated. I have to learn how to plan things better, too. Maybe I’ll get a [PDA] after all?

In any case, I wanted to write about how every time I get on a plane, I become more and more sure I’m going to die, which, at this present juncture, is not necessarily [the worst thing in the world]. But I also read through some old entries and realized how depressed I was, and how I’m feeling much better now. Perhaps it’s the sunlight. Perhaps it’s the personal interactions. Perhaps it’s the DSL connection. I could never be a scientist. I like introducing too many variables at once.

What it was, I think, was that short little blurb in Maxim about that crash in Sioux City (I think) and how the passengers in the back of the plane got completely smeared across the runway.

It’s funny. All it takes is a little serotonin and you get just a little more attached to [being] alive. It’s times like this I’ve come to expect the wrost. Although I’m pretty sure I’ll survive to see A+E get married.

It’s really silly, though. I keep mulling over the past. I will probably never get over A, because I never had a chance to being with. I just want to say things to her I never got to say, because even now I don’t have the proper words….

It’s because I know about too many things, but not enough of any one thing. Whatever that means. It just popped into my head.

But we’ll start somewhere, eventually. Probably not today though. How do you even start? How dramatic is this?…

Holy fucking God, they’ll probably have a kid before I graduate from med school. What will they name him or her?…

And will I also lose my sense of wonder, the sense of the world as this vast wide open space? Will I grudgingly accept the contraction of my world? Will I forget why I’m doing any of this? Or can I somehow preserve my sense of joy, my sense of finding beauty anywhere where it’s exceptionally ugly. My ability to see the green hills instead of the construction site.

Ah fuck. I want a lot of people at my funeral. I want them to miss me for the rest of their lives. Not as a hole in their spirits. Just with the simple realization that something [broken but] subtly beautiful is missing from the world. I use that word a lot, beauty…. But I do want to be remembered. Who doesn’t? Ah, hell.