-I have suffered the ultimate humiliation.  The final, demoralizing blow.  The definitive low point in the spectrum of twentysomething life.  That’s right, I’ve moved back home with my parents.  Fuck me.

-Now, before you feel too sorry for me, I must disclose that this was actually a voluntary decision.  Since Brian, my roommate of three and a half years, was moving out and our lease was ending, I had two choices: spend the month of December scouring the freezing streets of Manhattan with some dipshit apartment broker wearing too much Drakkar cologne, or sack up and move to LA.  Both are a fate worse than death.  Instead, I took the third option: move in with the ‘rents for a couple of months.  So here I am on Long Island, writing this column in the room I grew up in, staring at posters of John Starks and Kathy Ireland.

-I do have some responsibility around the house, though.  Like I have to take out the garbage and wash the dishes.  And I don’t even get allowance.  Think you’re discouraged about the lack of upward mobility in the job market?  Look at me.  I’m twenty-five years old and I have the same job I had in junior high, plus I took a 100% pay cut.

-Of course, the number one drawback to living at home is the increased difficulty in meeting chicks.  Luckily, with a girlfriend I can visit on the weekends, I don’t have to deal with this problem.  Otherwise, I don’t know what I would do if I was picking up girls in bars: “Hey, why don’t we go back to my place?  Yeah, um, there’s a 3:44am train out of Penn Station.  Oh, and I sleep on a twin bed with football helmet sheets.”