Cons just aren’t what they used to be for me. I still occasionally go to them, but I don’t plan for them weeks ahead, and the mere thought of them doesn’t make my pulse race. Looking at it honestly, it isn’t the cons that have changed, its me. Gone is that key element that made attending a convention an exciting, dangerous adventure: parents. Going to a con as an adult is like breaking and entering after you’ve already killed all the cops in the area. How fondly I remember the artifice involved in simply getting permission to go, trying to keep a straight face while saying that cons were basically a lot of literary minded people sitting around discussing books, and sometimes getting to meet favorite authors. And then the thrill of getting to the hotel and knowing I had only two hours to find a room number I could give my parents as the place to reach me. The one time I forgot to do this they actually called the hotel and had me found and sent home. And finally, the homecoming, where I tried to convince my parents that my pupils were dilated because it was so overcast and no, that certainly was not cum in my hair.

These days are over. Knowing that I could go to a con every weekend if I wanted makes them infinitely less attractive. Fucking in a stairwell isn’t nearly as much fun when I know deep down that I have a perfectly good bed in a perfectly good house where I could entertain an entire circus if I so wished, and all my housemates would do is ask me to have the carpets cleaned. Eating nothing but pop tarts for an entire weekend isn’t particularly enjoyable when you’ve eaten nothing but pop tarts for the last two months. And seeing all your friends gathered under one roof isn’t all that great, when what friends you don’t already live with show up to hang out at least every other weekend.