Two days from this exact moment I will be defying gravity in a huge metal contraption as I move ever closer to a life and world I fortunately can't even imagine. Aside from being quite pleased with myself for having engineered an escape from a pulse that is incrementally approaching flatline, I am also scared, almost into paralysis. That type of paralysis where all you can do is creep under a blanket and read the trashiest novel you can find (Kellerman, most recently), even though you really really need to get quite a bit accomplished. Buying, collecting, cleaning, packing, talking, etc.

The other activity I perform when I'm panicked at the Unknown is to look up old acquaintances, enemies, and friends over the internet; a few dozen clicks of sifting and riffling, the attempt to distill 10+ years of distance into a more or less comprehensible biography of Those Left Behind (or far more frequently, Those Who Have Left You Behind). I just found the first of two people I fell ruthlessly in love with at The BabyAge, and discovered she is making movies. I'm sure it is her, because cinematography is two steps beyond the perfect choice of action for her. Despite myself, I'm impressed with her and wondering if she is still so arrogant, searching, and lovely.

Lists and alcohol are the third and fourth means of stilling fear, but the lists get messy as you cross things off or add more, whereas the alcohol can, if consumed in too large a quantity, make you blubber and wonder if you are becoming an alcoholic. Liver cancer, sluffed brain cells, jaundice, tendency to speak More Than You Ever Should Have. Which is something I have to watch out for. Most countries of at least mediocre intelligence understand that a munitions trade embargo is a more or less healthy part-way solution to dealing with hostile or deceptively-toadying territories. But not me; I love arming untrustworthies. Get me drunk enough, and I'd even provide several well-drawn, highly articulated maps to allow for easier infiltration, perhaps because my addle-pated head wants to reveal the Reliability of even those most unreliable. The glory of Surprise (which so very rarely comes).

Anyhow, I guess panic never pays... it allows chinks. But it certainly can provide a pleasing degree of adrenaline combined with a the slight sweet smell of rotting self-indulgance... ah, like too-old pineapples. But yes, despite my uptight antics, I'm ready, ready, ready to leave. Stasis sucks.