So I’m migrated and making plans for the future. The main part of the plan is to go to Flatiron School and get really good at Rails. Other parts include having my tonsils removed to ease my sleep apnea, sclerotherapy to zap the knots of veins weighing down my face, and a wisdom tooth out, possibly all in one surgery. It’s been eight years since my last treatment. I remember afterwards, when the swelling was gone, not recognizing myself. It’s been eight years since my last face scrambling and that’s long enough that I hardly recognize myself again. Some guys have the discipline to get a haircut every three weeks; maybe it’s a standing appointment, maybe it’s a reoccuring calendar entry. My hair graph slopes up as I don’t think about it then roller coasters down every few months. Same as my fat lip, which slowly grows over the years and eventually needs dealing with. I’m not afraid of doctors or hospitals but whenever I spend time around them I find myself marveling at, like, the modularity of diagnostics, and whether that’s amazing and weird or just amazing. Each doctor has a specialty they’re real good at fixing, almost like an assembly line worker, and you feel like an elephant bouncing between blind men (neither analogy is fair at all). Learning to write code establishes a context for clarity that I want to fit everything into, but bodies aren’t computers and neither is The Universe. Least clear of all, probably, is this blog post. I’m tired and anxious and it’s the middle of the night and Art Brut is singing, “The record buying public shouldn’t be voting!” and that helps, but only so much. So I’ll try to sleep. I’ll finish smashcut. I’ll eat lentil soup and I’ll tutor people. I’ll go back to school.