I review things I've said, and come up with all the bright and witty things I should have said,
and I feel like kicking myself because I didn't mention them when we were together."
"That's a common experience." "I find myself wanting to impress you in a way I never thought about doing before,
but being with you has undermined my self-confidence. I question my motives now, about everything I do."
I tried to get her off the subject, but she kept coming back to it. "Look, I didn't come here to argue with you," I finally said.
"Will you let me take you home? I need someone to talk to." "So do I. But these days I can't talk to you.
All I can do is listen and nod my head and pretend I understand all about cultural variants,
and neo-Boulean mathematics, and post-symbolic logic, and I feel more and more stupid,
and when you leave the apartment, I have to stare in the mirror and scream at myself:
'No, you're not growing duller every day! You're not losing your intelligence! You're not getting senile and dull-witted.
It's Charlie exploding forward so quickly that it makes it appear as if you're slipping backwards.'
I say that to myself, Charlie, but whenever we meet and you tell me something and look at me in that impatient way, I know you're laughing.
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