A friend reminded me the other day that I don't hang out.

"Well, I know, but if I did. . . "
"But you don't, so. . . ?"
"But I could if I wanted to."
"So then why don't you?"

And I didn't have a good reason.

But tonight it's raining and all my friends are busy, dancing in pretty satin dresses or fingerpicking on their guitars or playing games or working or pretending that the world is them and they are the world. I am doing the last one too, only I am doing it by myself, listening to the rain fall and the cars drive by, their tires soaking up the moisture off the asphalt.

All of my astute plans for this weekend are smoldering before my eyes. I am idealistic about my time, thinking it is well spent alone, seeking out art galleries in the city, being creative with written words, and finding a lake into which to dip my toes. I am idealistic in the sense that it sounds better being thought about or written about and very lonely being practiced.

There are a few people I could call, new friends with whom I wish I were brave enough to initiate or old friends with whom I know wouldn't be good for me to inititate, but my phone remains unused of yet today. I am bored--but that's not what I would tell them, friends don't want to be friends only when other friends are bored. But I find that I've unlearned how to be friends with people unless I'm bored. I'm too busy for friendship without purpose.

And now all my friends are too busy for me.