You made soup the other day and implored me to try some. I swallowed the first spoonful, biting back my reflex to gag (I think they meant one teaspoon of salt, not one cup), smiled, and said I loved it. I even finished the rest of the bowl and the second one you offered that I could and could not resist. One hundred and seventy-six spoonfuls; a week later, I regret it.

When we were fifteen, you forced me to believe that I could be anything I wanted, almost at gunpoint. Well, you were pretty savage about it, anyway. My arguments included some of the more notorious of pre-schooler daydreams: Hercules, the Good Humour man, Tyrannosaurus Rex. You stubbornly maintained that I could easily go to the gym, begin selling ice cream from my grandfather's beat up old Chevy truck, or paint myself green, file my teeth, and walk on my toes. I sensibly pointed out that the latter of suggestions could not possibly qualify me to be Tyrannosaurus Rex, but you insisted that it was all a matter of psychology—if I thought I was T Rex, really thought it, then I was. The case was closed on the matter of prehistoric creatures. This was enough to shut me up. "But what if I aspired to become a chair?" I asked, after a period of prolonged silence, and accepted a pillow to the face without much fuss. I figured this was for the best. Had I asked, "But what if I aspired to become a pillow?" I'm sure my face would have the kind recipient of a chair.

A week has passed and I find an application to the Culinary Institute of America in the mail. I should have known. You've never actually seen yourself as ambitious. Just high-reaching. But we're twenty-six now. Denial is not as convenient as it once was.

I can admit that you're versatile, but the only successful example of an all-in-one I've managed to stumble across has been a Hewlett-Packard printer, fax, scanner, and copier. Four years and still coughing. But even machines have their limits. There's no button for sprinkles on a vanilla cone please thank you. It can't bench press me five hundred times nor does it have teeth to file.

So where do you stop? You have no limits, and you said that, but wasn't that just childhood happiness? We were supposed to grow up, but college was just not right for you, and jobs are just too boring. Rushing, pacing, you're lax and insecure. I wish you could come to terms with at least some aspects reality. Because if you don't, where does that leave the people who've supported your cause all this time?

Dura necessitas.