I WILL NOT ENJOY PRISON

Oh auburn amazon, you slender chestnut minx, rescue me from your hazel tempests and deliver me to languish beside your lithe silhouette...

I am desperately in love with my intern. She is sweeter than expected, having been shaped by the Unitarianism of small-town-Midwest, and smarter than expected, dosed with healthy west-coast university liberalism and the broad mind of a world traveler. She is also a tall, slender, dancer-vixen.

Unfortunately, she is also an undergraduate.

I see this not as a legal issue, but more of a 'that-guy' issue. Thanks to the miracles of modern study-abroad-and-'find'-yourself-for-a-year higher education, my intern is a year older than the average for her station in life. We are a mere 3.17 tantalizing years apart in age, yet I do not feel comfortable with the prospect of touching her inappropriately at the appropriate time (quite literally. I'm currently feeling a specific physical discomfort while conjuring this image).

Dare I follow in the footsteps of greater men than I (though my intern is decidedly not sitting at home polishing her V-Pin), those brave pioneers treading upon unspoiled ground? You know who you are, you lucky bastards, you. My God, the thrill of it. The smell of blood in my wolfish nose. The flash of soft flesh beneath generous garment. The blood boils, superheated by the hyperactive, hypermasculine sexual imagination. Dare I?

I dunno. I suspect flirting with one's intern constitutes a breach of several ethical and moral standards, compounded by the fact she has yet to graduate from college.

"Trust thyself," says uncle Emerson, though he and I may fundamentally disagree over the exact intentions of "every heart vibrates to that iron string." I agree wholeheartedly, iron indeed, though "string" is a bit unflattering as a metaphor. Ironic self-effacement is the avatar of a healthy self-image, Ralphy. Preach on you stallion, you.

I wonder if my future cellmate will enjoy Transcendentalist discourse?