Hello, darkness, my old friend

Or, Why I Have Nothing To Say.

(My first-ever post where the content entirely concerns the lack of content.)

I'm up to my eyebrows—which I've recently realized are, like my hairline, receding: I didn't even realize eyebrows did that—in various sorts of academic work, with the exception of Akkadian because the professor thereof is currently in Japan. Figuring out how to answer questions for an upcoming interview, since I never know what to say about my own work. Admiring fleurdelis28's terrifying spam collection. Waiting for a box of chapbooks to arrive in the mail: which I'm hoping will not be affected by the rather heavy, prickly snow dropping down in the streets outside. Am slightly impressed that some fratboys from a few houses down actually went up and down the street chanting "Chug! Chug! Chug!" in the snow, and would have been much more impressed if the noise hadn't interfered with my attempts either to study or sleep. And I am keenly aware that I owe all of you the last twenty or so lines of Ištar's Descent to the Underworld, because starting next week there will be incantations and Nergal and Ereškigal to post. One way or another, I will fulfill all of my various obligations. Either that, or I'll explode.

It will be Purim on Friday. (I don't need a noisemaker; I've got two fraternities on my street. Point them in the direction of Haman's name, pass the kegs, and see if you can hear a Torah reading over that.) This is the first year that I haven't made hamantashn with my mother. I've even got a recipe here; but I worry that in my current sleep-deprived state, any attempt to create festival cookies solo will result in things like kitchen fires. But the idea of eating store-bought hamantashn troubles me even more, so there may be fumaroles and smoke alarms after all. We'll see how the week works out.

(I suppose this was content of a sort, in the end. How about that.)