I'm living in my parents' house again, in my old bedroom--at first. But every other night, my dad generously offers my bedroom to his guests. He's constantly inviting people over now. "They're from a long way off," he says, "so it's only polite to give them your room."

They ARE from a long way off--my dad's gotten hold of a time machine and he keeps inviting people who've been dead for centuries. I wish he'd offer them HIS room. I'm sick of the King of Ancient Persia and his retinue. They always leave a mess for me to clean up--wine stains, mutton bones... the pistachio shells get in everything, and I'm allergic to wool.

At last, I snap. I tell the king off to his face. "Use my room, fine--but CLEAN UP AFTER YOURSELF! I'm not your maid!"

The King of Persia gently explains to me, as to a child, "I'm royalty. I don't have to clean up after myself."

All the courtiers and guards nod wisely--case closed, in their view. Kings don't have to clean their rooms.

I really, really, really think it's time to move out.

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