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.