More Bhutto

A great post from Jezebel:

• Musharraf On Bhutto: "I May Be A Dictator, But She Was Like An African Dictator..."
  • For someone who wants to be military dictator for life and cried when he had to take off the uniform, that's a pretty pot-kettle kind of statement. Does that mean he's really just following in her footsteps?
  • I also recommend reading all of the links within the post.

Goodbye to Bhutto

This morning CNN.com greeted me with blaring headlines about the death of Benazir Bhutto and my jumbled thoughts were something to the effect of: "Holy shit! I know who she is. Oh, no. This is bad. This is very bad."

I'm not going to waste time giving my view of things. I am unqualified to do so and still a little too shaken up. Also shaken up by the fact that I know enough to be shaken up. Apathy is so much easier. I don't quite know when or how the ripples of this tidal wave are going to reach my doorstep, or if the effects will even be as severe as some predict, but I just wanted to take a moment to acknowledge this troubled day.

Once Upon a December

I like to measure my life in Decembers. It's a hard month. It's cold in a way that the other winter months aren't. By February, the cold is purely physical, it's annoyance, it's scarves and coats held tight, a distaste with hot chocolate after months of imbibing warm drinks to counteract the low temperatures.

But December feels fresh. The outside cold is still sort of new and can invigorate. The hot chocolate tastes like happy memories. The chai tastes like family and friends and the sudden steaming up of your glasses when you walk into a warm coffee shop after walking for blocks in the cold.

But the December cold goes deeper than the temperature outside. The coldest part of December is the remembrance of another year gone by. It's facing all of the things you've fucked up, acknowledged that you've changed in a lot of ways that you shouldn't have, and haven't changed in a lot of ways that you should have. December is the month of introspection, self-reflection - internal combustion.

My best love stories begin in the chill of December - under blankets, beside ice covered cars, in front of fire places, inside of crowded movie theatres; memories of window sills and hookah bars and road trips and love letters and lame bars. My worst love stories begin in December.

So, here it is: December 2007. A year ago, writing out 2007 felt so amazing. The number seemed to teem with positive energy and hope and promises of fantasticness. It of course turned into just another year and this is yet another December, full of emotional tidal waves catalyzed by memories, twinges of regret, moments of fear...hope for the upcoming year...anxiety over what the remainder of this year has in store for me.

And there's nothing more to say. I have a case of the Decembers. It is neither good nor bad. I'm not depressed or overly excited. I am pensive. And by the time I get anywhere with my thoughts, draw any conclusions about my past or future, the new year arrives and I realize once again that there are no conclusions...