I could say something about the tsunami. I could say something about American imperialism. I could say something about Susan Sontag (apparently she was very illuminating and is about to become posthomusly famous to me, among many others). I could say something about the first season of M*A*S*H, which I am in the process of watching, or the last season of Sex and the City, which I am also in the process of watching. I could say something about yoga, and how it has alerted me to the both painful and illuminating possibilities of my sacral chakra. I could say something about the first truly drinkable $5.99 bottle of wine I have found and its unfolding tannins. I could say something about New York City and how much there is to consume and smell here. I could say something about the language used to instruct women how to perform craft projects, and how it is very different from the language used to instruct men how to perform craft projects. I could say something about my friend who I haven't seen in a year who is getting married next weekend, or my other friend who I haven't seen in a year who married her husband four separate times last year, so all of their grandparents could attend without having to move from their individual locations. I could say something about my own grandparents, who turned 84 and 86 last week. I could say something about my other grandparents, both of whom are buried in New Jersey. I could say something about my favorite band, who sing a song that says "when I die they're gonna bury me in Jersey." I could say something about my plans for death, which do not involved being buried in New Jersey. I could say something about the taxes I owe, and how I do not approve of what they will be used for. I could say something about the kindness of my mother's voice. I could say something about the sweetness of just-bathed children in fuzzy pajamas. I could say something about the sound of the key turning in the lock when you are bored at home and wish someone would come home and talk to you, how it is different from the sound of the key turning in the lock in the apartment next door, which is not followed by someone entering your apartment, which is followed instead by the sound of footsteps walking away, growing muffled, disappearing.