The Good Times are Killing Me

Every so often I manage to get myself into a bit of a masochistic state of being. This past week, for example, my parents came to visit me. Many will react with a clever and original pun on how anyone who takes pleasure in the company of their parents must be a masochist. Kudos my friends; rest easy, knowing that you have made the world of wit and high-brow humour the tiniest bit more unattainable for the rest of us. In fact, overall, the visit was not nearly as tense as it could have been, and all travesties and devastation were avoided, although my father was reduced to tears at least once. As much as my mother frustrates me with her utter and complete mental absenteeism, and as sleep deprived and ill as I was for the duration of their visit, I was a little reticent to see them go, quite nostalgic during the trip, and, being unabashedly honest, I could stand to have them back in the not terribly distant future. For all their flaws, for all the accidental trips to Hull and the boiled plastics, I always seem to forgive them, and in what seems like a considerable stretch to a good few, I always say I love you when they go.