My dear Mrs. Frankweiler,
I've got no friends in this city.
Since my expulsion and subsequent exile from Princeton, I have wandered these storied streets in a self-imposed bubble, one unpermeated by all but the most essential individuals. Why is this? What, exactly, is my problem with all my old school chums? I liked them well enough then, and, upon reflection, I like them well enough now. But there's something in me that keeps them at bay--or maybe me at bay.
I can't quite put my finger on it; maybe I'm trying to prove something, to myself, or to them, or to the world. That I can rebuild myself, from scratch, as I would have liked myself to be; without input of those who knew me when, I am free to create, to dash paint on the canvas, smoke French cigarettes, and drink Campari from a glass decorated with little prints of dogs.
But I worry that it's more than that. Surely there are elements of what I described above occurring, but I fear that perhaps I didn't like any of those people at all, really. Or perhaps they've disappointed me. Or perhaps--perhaps I'm afraid that they will come to disappoint me in time. It seems that most have.
Am I doomed to live my days alone? For whom will I purchase rounds of drinks? With whom shall I frequent the cinema? These and other questions haunt me.
Do you suppose I am merely stricken with some late-blooming angst? Perhaps it's just some good old fashioned clinical depression; I shall increase my Campari dosage immediately.
I await your reply with eagerness and impatience.
Your old friend,
James Tibolt Pterodactylus
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