Bad Developments

In my callow youth, some men used to like me. I took it for granted. I am aging now. I'm fairly sure I am developing middle-aged fuzzy hair - not romantic T.S. Eliot thin, tragic male hair that somehow evokes the loss of all things good. Just fuzzy. And not as long as it used to be. And colorless. Not dignified, dyeable gray. More like an unpleasant mouse, the sort even your cat might hide from you rather than present at the foot of your bed. Worse still, and only one of dozen unfortunate developments (to name only a few, the 12-minute mile, a horn beneath my right nostril, and the beginnings of a bovine shoulder hump), rather than egging me on to drink more vodka, people now look nervous when the very word is mentioned and hide said beverage from me.

Were these and other ailments not enough (and to get back to the original topic) suddenly the men who liked me for years - remembered facts about me I forgot! Thought my running away from their beds to sleep in cars charming! Obtained signed Will Ferrell photos for me unprovoked - I got around to liking them. And they? No, no they don't like me anymore. Not a one. I can't figure out if it's the hair or the vodka problem or ... ok, if they've seen the nose horn, I understand.

Fine, good. Die alone. Unfortunately, this phenomenon has now spread to my parents. Sailing around the country and the globe, popping in for birthdays and Christmas. Working diligently in my loathed profession. Ah, the happiness with which they greeted my returns home! The sadness of the partings!

And then I had to move back in. You've heard of the economic downturn. It turned. As a result, my mother is in the next room of what is indisputably her and not my house. She's owned this house since she was my age. I have been home for nearly two months. Without a job. Admittedly, I ALSO WANT TO KICK ME IN THE HEAD. But I really wasn't quite prepared for her to want to do so.

Random curse word.
Blarg.