Confessions of a Serial Swooper

I had lunch yesterday with a girlfriend of mine.  One of those friends with whom I can discuss anything, say anything, do anything.  We lived together in Boston once upon a time and, while our other two roommates were off at their own jobs, she and I spent all day long in pajamas, playing hooky from work, watching ridiculous television, eating like pigs, laying around like sloths and laughing….our…asses…off.   She does that to me.   Every so often she makes me belly laugh so hard that I can’t breathe.  Isn’t that the best feeling?   We all need more friends like that.

Anyway, the point is, we can talk without any screening.  Which makes me somewhat hopeful that I wouldn’t actually have the following conversation with anyone else.

Me:   So, how’s she doing?
Friend:  Oh, terrible.  She’s so lazy.  I don’t even know if she has a job.   She has no motivation.  Living with her parents.  It’s pretty bad.
Me:   Oooh, do you think she’s ON DRUGS?


I mean, really.  It was barely out of my mouth before I realized how I sounded.  OLD.  O-l-d, OLD.  Christ.  It rattled me.

I think I need to get out of my Mommy cocoon, score a joint somewhere and collect myself.