I ain't gonna work on Maggie's Farm no more.

By Friday, I'm usually so exhausted that my steering wheel directs me home instead of anywhere I probably should be.

I should get out more, for single-white-female-age-twenty-two. Oscar says, "Come dance with me." And it was like, when did you come to know my name so well? I should be at Alison's birthday party. I should have multiplied my time.

But instead, I pour myself a drink, eat my sisters' home made soup and lobster shaped biscuits, and watch Drunk History with Philip. My phone turns itself off, as it permits itself to do because it is old.

I find myself, here, Sharon. Admitting these things to you.
I admit that the admirers I took in my youth are married and are having children now.
I admit that I rub my arms on perfume samples in magazines, sometimes.
I admit to avoiding going out because of the rising prices of fuel.
I admit that I have dreams involving Fred Armisen showing up to church more than fortnightly.
And I admit that I will never buy a Mac because I am too old to bend to change, and too lazy to learn other technology.

And the thing I can never admit to the hipsters is that: I took a shower every day this week.

Forgive me Sharon. I should keep these things to myself.