In Lisa’s parlor last night, we talked about these little adult things. Like, I own a stapler and stapler remover, and use them both frequently. Lisa has lovers and an apartment.

I still go to house parties, but now they are family BBQs with kids running around, and I stand in the backyard having a beer and schmoozing with middle-aged people I just met. Last night the host of the party I went to was the spitting image of Woody Allen – complete with balding. He shimmied in his living room until four in the morning.

A bearded, greased, flock-of-sea-gulls haircut, tattooed motorcycle man seemed to take a particular liking to me.

“An’ how old are you sweet thing?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“Well! Ain’t you got just the sweetest lil’ face. You have a baby face, but you make it work for ya. I’d say you’re nineteen!”

I still party, but it’s with people who are planning their 401(k)s while I’m planning my twentieth birthday party.