All this talk of age reminds me of this lovely poem by Erich Fried!
That I
am much too old
for you
or that you
are too young for me
these are all
weighty arguments
that would be decisive
in the workshops
where
more enlightened people
cut
their calculated futures
strictly to measure
I met up The Boy and some of his friends this weekend. They were all rather nice. Though I wish they didn’t make such a big deal about my age-their age. I mean, I am 23, not five. And they are 26, not 145. I dislike people who make a big deal about their age. Being an ageist (no matter which end one is partial to) is as bad as most other negative isms. In spite of their alleged maturity, I felt like their grandmother for the most part.
The good thing in all of this was that The Boy told me that he thought of me as the fumiest and funnest person ever. He was just a little tipsy when he said that, but I am basking and positively glowing because of that.
It annoys me when I feel happy. It is boring and I know that it will be short-lived.
What can I say? This is what writing should be. I admire her.
Came across this page while Googling for Dear John letters! 
Late Thought
Suddenly
I am
so tired
of my tirelessness
that it occurs to me
that you must
have been tired
of it
for a long time.
Sigh. What a man.
