Huh?

I'm not even sure why I want to sell my house. I don't have anywhere particular to go. I think I'm bored. I think some chaos will fix what ails me. Trust me, you could put together all of the best medical minds in the world and they couldn't fix what ails me. They wouldn't even try.

"Nurse, would you please disconnect the life support system there?" one of them would say.

Willie called me today and left a message. It was a pretty long one which is a losing proposition with me. I can get through the first couple of sentences -- maybe the third sentence on a good day -- then I quit paying attention. Apparently he was calling to apologize for missing a coffee date that I had forgotten all about three minutes after we talked about it. Maybe we didn't even have a time scheduled. Maybe he was just fucking with me. Like when my "friends" used to dress me up with make-up and the like as I snoozed peacefully on the floor of a crowded party, passed out.

"Dude," I exclaimed. "What did I tell you about the long messages? Didn't I tell you no long messages?"
"Huh?" he said. "Sorry. I wasn't paying attention."

Anyway, the house thing. I'm a little embarrassed to talk about it without the flimsy veneer of anonymity I'm using here, on the World Wide Web. It's one of those "my Ferrari's in the shop" kind of problems, especially for a guy who was living with his parents when he was 30.

It made for great pick up lines: "Hi, I'm Horseface. I'm 30. I'm unemployed and I live with my parents. Your place or your place?"