With the exception of a old friend with a perpetual case of hard luck and patchy cellphone service, a more recent one that has occasions for bipolar and talks about Shaminism, and a man I consider my brother but seen roughly 15 hours out of the year now, I have successfully estranged, been forgotten about, or otherwise sequestered years 18-23 behind me.

Friends from years 24 to 29 will be easier to box up. Scientists are many things, but committed social boons typically not.

Then it'll be off to wherever the hell in whatever the hell for another 2-4 years for a post-doc. After that maybe another short post-doc. And/or after the second/first one, a faculty job.

Somehow I don't think it'll stop there, though. I was built--fashioned is a better word--to seek out war zones and at best leave them in a slightly better state. I am a nomad. I am fundamentally a cold, mildly heartless pragmatist. I realize, for instance, that I will not be young forever, and my taste in women has perpetually veered toward the unhealthy (and bisexual for some strange quasi-coincidental reason). Emily is a sensible, solid choice for a mate. She is incredibly intelligent, impatient, moderately thoughtful, unwilling to experiment, schedule-oriented, orderly, funny, sweet, and exactly as she appears to be. We have never over the course of our 3 year relationship had a penetrating heart-to-heart. I love her. She loves me. She's pretty cool. That I can live with until whatever happens. Granted, she may not want to move with me to wherever I go, but I'll pass that bridge when I come to it.

The only alternative for the discernible future would run like this schedule, keeping in mind a guy needs to eat, shower, and transition:

1:00-8:00am -- Sleep.
9:00-6:30pm -- Work.
7:00-12:00am -- Very infrequent socializing. More typically, photo outings, writing, or dancing.
12:00-12:45am -- Music, Porn, or Music and Porn.

I like that thought. I want roughly 2.87 months of that. I could get caught up. I could re-descend into places like the Inferno. I could seal myself away from distraction.

Trouble is I've already mostly done the latter. I can count on one hand missing three fingers the amount of times any of my friends invited me out. And I like that. I welcome the quiet. Emily more than makes up for it--but that's her way.

I've consigned myself to having few, in the literal sense, close friendships. I think that's best. There's too much to do.

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