Article: Poverty Goes Straight to the Brain

Another bullet point to add to the list of, "What is wrong with you?"

from Wired.

Today: What is the effin point of nostalgia?

I'm sure there's some study on it somewhere. Aurgh. Move on, move on. To what?

I don't want my life to be a repeating fractal. Every year an iteration of every month, of every day, of every hour, of every minute.

Frustration.

Because It's Always About Me.

Recent article in the New Yorker about the effects of solitary confinement on prisoners is fascinating. (Sidenote: I love Atul Gawande. I wonder if he has a Twitter feed.)

I spoke to Keron Fletcher, a former British military psychiatrist who had been on the receiving team for Anderson and many other hostages, and followed them for years afterward. Initially, Fletcher said, everyone experiences the pure elation of being able to see and talk to people again, especially family and friends. They can’t get enough of other people, and talk almost non-stop for hours. They are optimistic and hopeful. But, afterward, normal sleeping and eating patterns prove difficult to reëstablish. Some have lost their sense of time. For weeks, they have trouble managing the sensations and emotional complexities of their freedom.

Of course my immediate thought after reading the article is, what irreparable damage have I done to myself with my self-imposed isolation? Because being tortured in prison camps and locked in a grey room and terrorized by captors is exactly the same as moving to New York and not talking to anyone for a year and a half.

I still get angry when I think about you but I'm sorry I was an asshole.

Waiting for Elmo

This would have been helpful senior year of high school, Mr. Hanlon's English Honors class. Maybe I wouldn't have gotten a 'D' on my paper about that stupid, stupid play. I actually could have written ten meaningful pages on this Sesame Street version of "Waiting for Godot."