The low hum of The Macarena wafts into your one-bedroom apartment, the source of the 90s earworm a vague mystery. Dusk is slowly dawning on the other side of the thin, sun-rotted curtains. Murder She Wrote is just concluding on The Hallmark Channel as you turn off a dusty lamp and grab a chilled Ensure from your mostly-empty refrigerator. After your wig is safely ensconced on a styrofoam bust on the vanity, you struggle to open your blood-pressure pills with arthritic fingers made all the more slippery with freshly-applied Bengay. As you down the pills with the vanilla-infused protein shake, your tight hip-flexor muscles cause you to groan as you turn off the bedside lamp and pull up the tattered electric blanket you inherited from your Great Aunt Bertha. You stare at the crack on the ceiling above your bed, tracing its growing path towards the yellowed chandelier. You begin to slowly drift off into a fitful slumber. The last thought within your grey matter is a quiet rumination that h