Think I'm Paranoid?

Three years ago, they found me in Florida, but I escaped with my life -- barely, by the thinnest margin, by that pesky man-whisker on my chin. I drove a thousand miles away, covering my tracks in Weird Old Waterloo, the Texan Liberal Mecca, the Eclectic Oasis Live! I knew it was only a matter of time, though, before they'd catch up to me, back me into a corner, push me to the edge. It wasn't gonna be pretty. I swore I'd never go quietly, never give them the satisfaction. If I had to steal away another thousand miles, I'd do it.

Do I sound paranoid? Maybe I am, but don't ever forget this: Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they aren't out to get you.

On the run these last few years, I've gone through many changes, from dying my hair super blonde and chopping it short and sassy, to donning thick-rimmed, gem-studded reading glasses, to eating gargantuan organic produce (good for intimidating the man in your life), to downing chewable tropical-flavor fiber tabs, and to throwing back a stemglass-a-day of sweet burgundy Shiraz.

So many changes, so much effort, and for what? All to harbor a secret, to avoid a destiny that will not be denied. Now I'm E.T., hiding in the closet, scheming my next move, unsure why my stalkers continue their dogged pursuit. But this much I do know: there are few places left to hide, for they are relentless, and sooner or later they will find me. Their reach and mite are too powerful, their tentacles too hard-sucking. They will bullwhip you out of your blissfully unaware reverie. And by then you get it: the end is far nearer than you could have imagined.

Today I caught sight of their messenger outside my house, their sinister harbinger of mortality. It was too late to make a run for it. I hid in the shadows, but their calling card was already waiting for me. As I held it in my quivering hand with sweat dripping down my temples, fear and dread in my heart, I raised my fist, looked up to the sky, and shouted, "Damn you, AARP! Damn you to hell!"
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