Just a few months ago, I was one of them. A year ago, even more so: confident, independent, strong. I knew what my goals were, and accomplished them. None of this procrastination, or this introspective crap. I realize I've finished my cereal, and get up for another bowl. Coming back to my table, I see two more tables of architects from "my" class. I can't say anything; I don't deserve to say anything. There is nothing to say, besides "I'm sorry." A friend nods a greeting; I nod back. Where have all my friends gone? I don't really hang out with anyone, except my partner. (Happy seven-month anniversary! I've messed up so many times, these past seven months. But he always forgives me. He is so much better than I deserve.) Well, where are my friends? Dave, Eric, Mark, Eric Scherbarth, Conor, Nate. These are the guys I've known forever, the friends I saw every day, thought of every day. I munch on a crouton in my salad. There is no answer to this, because the question is wrong. The answer lies in, Where have I been? I haven't written one letter; the emails I've sent, I could count on my fingers. That's all the contact I've had, for seven or eight months. Nothing more. I used to run to these people's houses, when they had no time to come over to mine. (Oh yeah. I've given up on running, too.) I've been a reclusive little jerk.