Three months ago, I was relaxing from a rather taxing Wednesday, thinking about the way the desert reacts to the weather, having an altogether too silly day at work, growling over governmental scariness, drinking enough water, muttering about changes at work, and playing around with an MIT survey.

Six months ago, I was still seriously unpacking into my new apartment. Figment and I were working out the rocks in our friendship, and things were ... a lot more tense and UST than they are now.

Nine months ago, I had two adult roommates, one eight-year-old boy roommate, plus an assortment of pets. I was giving plasma, doing arcane things with chocolate, hiding presents from kids, and keeping cats away from giftwrap they'd chew up.

Twelve months ago, I was making cracks about fortune cookies, chatting, reading, geeking. I mused on geek courtship tactics, and how acting dumb does not win the kind of mates I want. I battled depressive attacks that struck me with a lot more vigor than similar attacks do now.

Twenty-four months ago, I was finding old lost things, raging over illegal phone calls, sublimating my rage, and finally using my well-honed rage as a mirror to use the obnoxious behavior of others back against them.

I seem to have reached a level of calm where the inside and the outside are nearly synchronous. It used to be that I'd look sweet while being a roiling bubble of rage. By thirty, will I be as unflappable as Aral's dear Captain?