Yes, I feel like an extreme bitch for suggesting that I – a privileged, educated and employed, home-owning woman – believe such a thing as an unwanted house guest exists. But in my world it, perhaps more accurately he, does. The embodiment of this nuisance is no stranger to me. He stayed with us in the spring of 2018 for an excruciating 8 days of millennial mooching, gross name mispronunciation (clue to the clueless if you’re going to stay free anywhere for any duration, know the proper names of your hosts), asking for rides (despite the easy access to Lyft, Uber, cabs, etc. in our urban area), eating through house and home, monopolizing not just our guest space but our entire upstairs living area. With not a single ounce, mention, acknowledgement of thanks or gratitude. And he is back. Is it any wonder a sudden wave of depressive malaise set in this evening? Or that I spent the first 90 minutes of his return hold-up in my room, feigning a conference call? Ugh, get me through this visit.