"... And the singer went home early..."

Okay, so I'm not a singer. Except in the shower when I'm doing my famous redition of "Mercedes Benz," but that's really none of your business.

I am tired of being responsible.

I am tired of being the only one who can't stay at the bar until 1:30 on Wednesday night because I have to work in the morning and I can't call in sick and I miss all the good stuff like the shots of whiskey bought by our mysterious rich friend who is jetting off to London in the morning.

People wouldn't lecture me on how I shouldn't be out at a bar at all on Wednesday night.

I want to jet off to London in the morning.

I am so bored.

If I were anyone else I would buy a motorcycle and pack a bag. I would ride to some little place in the midwest and change my name to Lerlene. I would dye my hair redder and wear a beehive and get a job working in some truck stop diner. And when that got boring I would get back on my motorcyle, and I'd color my hair something else and change my name again and go to Washington and can peas or something. And when I got tired of that I'd walk barefoot on the beach in Key West and scratch a manatee's tummy in the marina on my break from serving people cocktails with little umbrellas in them.

I could learn to play poker and improve my pool game.

Nobody would blink if I up and decided to shave my head.

I could wear the same jeans and black t-shirt every day.

And I wouldn't have to hear the radio station play "Pinball Wizard" again in an attempt to get me and all the other poor slobs out there to get excited about where they're going. Maybe I'd even learn to like that song again-- in time.