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.