We might as well throw up our hands and admit that we’d like nothing better than to haul our vulgar, claptrap adult past to the pit and ignite it all, perhaps, god willing, to the resounding thwap of celebratory musket fire. What, indeed, have we accomplished? Who, spotting us on the street, would hail us with words both complementary and salutatory? Why do dogs and summer brides avoid us? And where is our pink hot-water bottle, a thing of beauty and considerable heat? All is lost to us, lost in the fogs of antiquity, lost along with the Mean Notebook from junior high and the set of keys that vanished in a fugue of drunken snowdrift fumbling circa 1994.