.

Or 15 or 20.  I’m sitting on a tacky teal couch in Ketner  - a 3 story building that housed the computer labs, and therefore, the center of my social life.  It’s certainly later than midnight, but probably not 6 a.m., yet.  I’ve been coming here for years, and the days blend together.  This sort of life is a glimpse into the future: unconventional hours of wakefulness; a skewed sense of time; mutual depression and other social/emotional maladies [undiagnosed] for a few of us; still a gleeful geekiness pervades.  We all know we’re smart, and our perception of ourselves are expressed in caricatures.  We talk with breathless enthusiasm and broad strokes that would make me blush in a few years (when, we talk, that is.  There’s a lot that goes unsaid, and I’m not sure if it’s stoicism or immaturity).  We’ve probably played a few hands of Spades,  with Fred well past the Line of Rationality, but who knows, he may have caught that elusive bid - it’s not important - the war stories are all that are important.

I’m tired and low - I’m running away from my family; the spectres of an unknown school;  Some of the others have spent time in school, and are here for the revelry; maybe the others are from the outside, looking in.  I’m addicted to something, probably a mix of a few things.  I look at things in terms of stats and points, and, at the very least, I have some friends.

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