Things could not be worse, even if I had a head made of cheese in the middle of Amsterdam. Or a head made of pot, if you believe those rumors about our European neighbors. Camembert has fallen in love, making him even more intolerable than usual.

Wait, for as they say, it gets worse. You remember my friend Girl Elvis, who set me up with prescription drugs not long ago, and whose real name escapes my memory? Yes, she’s the culprit. Damn her and her sexy manly-yet-feminine sneer, and jaw-dropping rendition of “Suspicious Minds.”

As good as her word, she dropped by our Flatbush residence a mere three weeks ago in search of a place to lay her head, expecting I would simply open up my doors because I had made such a promise two weeks before. Audacity aside, I decided to make good on my word, because she looks very strong under those sequined sleeves. I had no idea my life would be turned upside down, and not in a “cute illegitimate kid moves into swinging bachelor apartment” sitcom way.

Instantly Camembert took a shine to her. Perhaps it was that alluring pompadour, or her bassy way of introducing herself when she walks into a room: “Hey, ladies and gentlemen, I’m an impersonator of Elvis Presley.” They have to say that now, for legal reasons, she informed me. What man could resist her? Me, that’s who. The homoerotic undertones alone have kept me up at nights. But not Camembert, apparently he’s exceedingly secure in his sexuality, or some nonsense.

“What do you think of Loretta?” he asked me over breakfast one morning. I launched into an angry diatribe about Loretta Lynn, so-called “Coal Miner’s Daughter,” before I remembered it was the birth name of Girl Elvis. I then told him exactly what I think of her, that my opinion was strong in no certain direction. “I think she’s snazzy,” he said.

Disgruntled noise here. He used to think I was snazzy. Or even if he didn’t, it was easier to imagine he did when he didn’t talk so much. I preferred Camembert when he used to come home quietly from wherever it is he goes and wheels himself into his room, to stay there until I wake him up in the middle of the night to go duck hunting, or whatever escapade has captured my imagination as of late. Now, there’s no guarantee he will even be in his room when I want to surprise him! He may be sitting on the couch with his new girlfriend, watching Blue Hawaii. I will not have it. Happiness should not go on under my roof if I’m not getting a slice of it.

Still, I cannot simply kick Girl Elvis out. Again, she looks very strong. I should try to find a way to foil their romance before it begins. I have talked to her about it, and she assures me her intentions are honorable. Or actually, she said, “Camembert… is that the guy who sleeps on the floor in the hallway?” At which point I correct her, no, that’s Eugene, I found him in the attic when I bought the house. She insists Camembert or, “that poor little wheelchair kid,” is not her type. I think it’s all a ruse to further confuse me, and I will not have whatever it is she’s making me have.

It’s a sad day for Rok Finger when the world doesn’t revolve entirely around him and his ever-widening circles. I will command Camembert’s full attention once again, or die trying. Or someone might die, at any rate.