They Say You Can't Come Back

I turned 27. No major existential dilemmas; it was a pretty decent year, career-wise.

Welcome Home. Ha.

M. informs me that there’s a substantial uptick of suicides around Thanksgiving, and that’s certainly understandable: The family interrogations, the ritual force-feeding, the encroaching cold and darkness as the Earth recoils from the sun, the Bataan Death March of good cheer.

I’m sitting in an Irish bar across from the Uptown and a friend of mine is saying that he went home with a midget during a drunken binge the week before.

“How many times do I have to tell you, it was a dwarf.”

Sorry, dwarf.

“You screwed a dwarf?”

“No, I just took her home.”

Like a pet?

“Shut the hell up.”

It’s nice to know that, no matter how far abroad you travel, you can always return home to find the weirdness in full swing. Comforting, really.