Note: Yes, I'm fully aware that I suck. I gave up on my previous design for this blog and I'm going to postpone the redesign until I can do it for academic credit. In the meantime, I'm going to get back to blogging.

Note #2: This is the blog post I've been wanting to write for nine weeks now. I'm not going to be vague – I have no reason to be. Also, I'm not proofreading it. I'm going for a stream of consciousness thing here.

I think the most interesting aspect in probably all of humanity is family. Doesn't it seem strange? A collection of people that one is practically hardwired to love, for no real reason. I have a huge family. That fact has less to do with my relatives being apparently very interested in sex and more to do with my conception of family itself.

I don't stop at blood or legal relatives. My nuclear family doesn't only consist of my "real" brothers or sisters. It also includes my acquired siblings, those with whom I've become inextricably linked, through various circumstances. My extended family doesn't stop at aunts and uncles, but also includes friends of mine with whom I may not spend much time, but whom I can always talk to or count on.

I enjoy the idea of family. I like the idea that your true family consists only of those who treat you like family. Even my favourite television shows deal with family in some major way – Buffy, Six Feet Under, Friday Night Lights, The West Wing – they are all family-oriented shows.

So, if I consider what many people call friends to be family, where does that leave me, in terms of friendship? Stranded, I guess. I consider many people to be friends. But I would never expect them to help me, simply because of some misguided altruistic urge. And, barring an exceptionally good mood, I probably wouldn't go to incredibly extreme lengths to be in the good graces of these people.

Early last month, I had a bit of car trouble. Nothing particularly serious, just a situation that continues to make me question my own intellect.  The situation itself required my attention for about three hours, before I was able to consider it fixed. For the first hour and a half, as I worked, I talked to Katelyn. We laughed at my stupidity and she listened to me bitch about life, all the while being gently supportive. When I had finally finished my work, I called her again and we rejoiced in my success.

Then, about twenty minutes later, as I was driving down the highway, I discovered that I had not been nearly as successful as I had thought. So I called my brother, Craig. I drove to his house, where he fed me dinner, fixed my car, filled my gas tank, and then let me get on my way.

Last May, I played Patty Griffin's "The Long Stairs," at my grandfather's funeral. As I keyed the last handful of notes on the piano, I suddenly started to cry. I don't cry very easily and I certainly rarely cry in public. The funeral itself was, of course, very sad, but I didn't expect to cry. I obviously loved my grandfather, but I don't have the same history with him that my older family members do. Crying was an unusual thing for me to do.

Aaron was there. If memory serves, I had extended invitations to both Aaron and Jonathan, but only Aaron showed up. At that point, Aaron had known me for about three years. More than enough time to learn that public crying is a rare event for me. When I returned to the church, after burying my grandfather, I discovered he had already left. He never spoke to me when he was there and never mentioned the event afterward.

I probably should have simply been grateful for his presence, I know. I can't help but draw comparisons between his actions (or lack thereof) and what I would have and have done. Additionally, the event comes to mind when I reflect on whether what happened nine weeks ago was the unfortunate product of ego and circumstance, or simply an inevitable conclusion.

When I compare the events of last February and last May, there forms an inconsistency in my conception of family. How can I consider my closest friends to be family, when they are capable of acting so unlike anything that could be described as familial and, in fact, often engage in such acts? Is there a problem with how I view family and friendship?

The conclusion that I come to, time and again, is "No." What happened in this situation can simply be thought of as infiltration – mice eating away at the food you store in your basement. Having such an open concept of family is a wonderful thing, but it's also an open invitation to those who would feed off it. Whether or not we choose to admit it, familial connections are meant to be reciprocal. The reason we form bonds with our family members is because it has proved advantageous to our ancestors. It's a strong thing, family – unfortunately, it is not immune to parasites.

I don't think Aaron and Jonathan are inherently bad people. I don't think they're as good as they seem to think they are, but I don't think they're bad. In fact, I still can't help but think of Jonathan in a mostly positive way. That may have more to do with the fact that he's the one I haven't seen or heard at all, in the past nine weeks, but it's true.

It is, of course, impossible to capture the essence of a relationship or friendship by recounting a single event. A few days ago, I went through the photos I had taken on my trip to Europe, in 2007. I was smiling or making ridiculous faces in a lot of them. Looking at them almost instantly made me remember talking to the two of them for hours, while laying down in a London hotel room. Outside, there were people screaming. It sounded like the end of the world had finally found us. But we never moved – either we were lazy or we were far too interested in what was happening between the three of us.

But I require photos now, to remember those things. When I think of our history, it's overrun by the Other Memories. The bad ones. In contrast, when I think of the history I've formed with Katelyn, or Lauren, or Amanda, the Other Memories are the ones I've already forgotten.

They're not terrible people, so much as people who made terrible choices. But I think they're unhealthy for me and for the family that I've both been born into and managed to build. And so, as unfortunate as it may be, I have to be done with them. Because that's what you do, when you find mice in your basement. You get rid of them and then you try to repair the damage they've done.

But as a final thought, let me remind you that, sooner or later, mice always come back.