Danny L. and I discussed writing letters to our future selves. He would write a letter to his eighteen-year old future self, and I'd write on to my 35-year old future self.

"I'd write: I hope you still like Halo. And poo. And farting. And ass," he said wryly.

"Hmm. I think I'd write: I hope you are married and have children," I said.

"I doubt that's going to happen," he said. "Because no one comes up to you."

"What do you mean?"

He put his face down on the table and breathed in deeply, concentrating on the words forming in his mind. Finally, he looked up at me. "Has anyone ever come up to you and asked you on a date?"

I shrugged noncommittally. "Yes."

"Okay." He twirled his pencil. "I just think you are going to end up alone."

"What?!?" My eyebrows leaped. "Are you implying that no one will ever like me???"

"No," he said in a deadpan voice. "But I think you are going to end up alone."

"What a horrible thing to say."

"Do you like any of your friends?"

"Not in a romantic way."

"Well, you have to say 'yes' to people if you want to get married." He smiled his little Buddha smile. "Maybe you can marry one of your brothers," he said and proceeded to cackle gleefully.

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