Generally, life goes well. I am working at two restaurants: Chart house and the Claddagh Irish pub . Bussing tables can be tiring, but in the end it's the best money available and it pays my minimal bills. This semester draws to an end peacefully, leaving me with four A's and the previously mentioned B in accelerated calculus (grumble), but all in all I feel very little pressure from my finals. My thanksgiving went well, and I look forward to returning to salt lake on the 23rd for a couple of days. Things are calm, and I am happy. Generally, life goes well.

If there is any bit of wisdom that my eighteen years have afforded me it is the knowledge that intensely emotional interaction is costly. Bitter tears certainly have their place, but they must be respected and reserved wisely before they wear thin the ties of companionship. Do not dress selfish escapades in the fine, transparent linens of humanitarianism and selfless concern; I have seen such attempts once, twice, too many times, too many times have I been the perpetrator and acted in the same way. You honestly mistake your endeavors toward reassurance, and, if needed, reinstatement for selflessness. I stand exasperated, too experienced in the matter to retort with hypocrisy yet not wise enough to act maturely, with equity and compassion, and handle the situation well. My face is clean, my eyes are dry, and we are okay, but I remember the consuming despair such scuffles can lead to; I know the tears that rattle you, that keep you from breathing but won't let you drown. I recall the deadly, bittersweet time and note that I am now too old to cry like that. The realization rises to my mind and I smile: such is not true, I'm afraid; I am, and always have been much too young to cry like that.

It is frustrating, darling, to find that I’ve fallen into a relationship that’s flawless yet so damn inconvenient. I see opportunities to slowly graft myself back to normality, back to the norm, back to the meaningless expectations. They don’t tempt me, darling, you know they don’t; how ridiculous to lend a second to distraction when every moment brings my thoughts back to you. I take his number, wishing his endeavors, though innocent, were as platonic as they appear, that his odd Kentucky gentility and truly sweet demeanor didn’t hold hopes of something more than friendship. I wish I could call him, that I could begin other friendships I so direly need without feeling guilty or inappropriate. You and I happily operate outside the borders of the masses, benefiting from subversiveness and enjoying phenomenal compatibility, every aspect of our world perfect save its isolation. There are times, however, when I gaze towards the big city, rife with vice and pettiness, seething with destructive unimportance, and I long for the comfort of stupid, meaningless people who understand.