Being The Survivor Stinks.

Keeping Up The Appearance Of Having All Your Marbles Is Hard Work, But Important.

I Am Ninety. Or Ninety-three. One Or The Other.

I Want Her To Melt Into Me, Like Butter On Toast. I Want To Absorb Her And Walk Around For The Rest Of My Days With Her Encased In My Skin. I Want.

Dear God. Not Only Am I Unemployed And Homeless, But I Also Have A Pregnant Woman, Bereaved Dog, Elephant, And Eleven Horses To Take Care Of.

I Used To Think I Preferred Getting Old To The Alternative, But Now I'm Not Sure. Sometimes The Momotony Of Bingo And Sing-alongs And Ancient Dusty People Parked In The Hallway In Wheelchairs Makes Me Long For Death. Particularly When I Rememver That I'm One Of The Ancient Dusty People, Filed Away Like Some Worthless Tchotchke.