I just met Rosalyn.

Rosalyn McKnight, or her maiden name Keirn, or Kern since she used to take the "i" out when she wrote it.

These days she goes by Roz.

She's 91, lives in Glendale, and eats at Burger King every morning except Wednesdays and weekends. The dial-a-ride picks her up. She used to walk all over, but now her arthritis makes walking painful so she calls the dial-a-ride and sets appointments for two weeks ahead of time. She said she wants to die now, now that she can't walk.

Roz, I feel ya. I remember when I couldn't walk, when my rheumatoid arthritis was out of remission and was full-blown in my feet. I wanted to die too.

But seriously, Roz, we should all be so lucky as to be 91 and jaded. I'll be lucky if I live three more years to see thirty: your granddaughter is 32.

I plan to meet you again, Roz, next week at BK, and maybe we can set a time to go to the arboretum or something, see a movie.

I mean, I know you aren't supposed to just adopt-a-grandma at the local Burger King, but fuck it. Maybe you are.