On careful longitudinal analysis, one finds that this happens every 5 years on a nonsynchronized schedule with my other occasional disaster, the Abortive Attempt at Romance.
I've figured it out. I keep reliving my 20s, because I didn't get to then. So I hook up with some 20somethings, and we are all slackers without lives and we hang out and whoop it up faintly, like stunned howler monkeys. Then bit by bit they go off and pair up, find true love or careers, get involved in life, and leave me sitting at the coffee house with a cold espresso.
Maybe I should grow up this time instead of finding another set of Yuffies to hang with. When I hit 55 or so it's going to be a real fucking Strangers with Candy mess.
I think that would entail buying better clothes, pretending that the news is real, and joining the Sierra Club to meet other aging failures and take one home with me, though, and I just can't face that.
It's back to bourbon 'n' denial for me.