So I’m supposed to be going to England in about a month, or maybe less, yet I still have not booked a flight. I tend to put these things off, because I’m afraid of flying. I understand the physics; I recognize that terrorism doesn’t happen very often; what I fear is mechanical error, systems errors, pilot error.

I woke up this morning and thought OK, I’m going to do it.

Brought in the newspaper, and saw the Air France 447 coverage.

I haven’t done it.

The last week has not been a good one. I had a birthday, the first one since my mother died; no one I’m biologically related to remembered it. I attended the funeral of a friend’s father. I can’t find various important receipts (probably due to the parentally-induced brain trauma of the past year), and my study is a wreck. I need to start the summer over, but I feel more like going back to bed with a pile of space-opera sci-fi and pretending that my real career involves translation from alien languages, interstellar diplomacy, and shooting bad guys with tentacles.

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