500

So I write. Much as I would like to write beautiful, longhand poetry, my penmanship is so far from legible these days that all my morning pages are simply a waste of time and ink. I cannot reread them.

I should have ordered a burrito. I went crazy with the ordering at Aló yesterday, with Patrick not being there, and completely forgot that Hazel's friend Eric had mentioned wanting a burrito. I write. I hope he had fun; he seems like a cool guy.

At 22, they feel old, not having accomplished all they set out to do. Additionally, they feel it's too soon to even think about getting married or having kids; they want to have accomplished careers first.

And all Patrick and I can do is feel sad and frustrated about our own station: not having careers or kids or even just jobs we really really enjoy and find meaningful.