I don't know if this really counts as a confession, but I was at one of those... mixers, last week. (A rooftop bar, very loud.) Everyone seemed to know each other, or at least they were performing a kind of effortless camaraderie, while I just stood there with my ginger ale (alcohol and my medications don't mix, anymore) feeling like an isolate. It’s a familiar sort of psychic pain, a sort of existential loneliness I suppose, that I've known since I was a young woman trying to sell my paintings—this feeling of being fundamentally out of step, always slightly off-key. I still wonder if my life might have been different if I'd been better at... interfacing.