Cooking food for her husband’s just a drag

There’s a life-sized plastic bat that usually sits on the floor of the Fortress of Solitude. It’s a squeaky bat, that makes noise when you squeeze it. I’m not sure how the bat came to live with me, but the kidlings love to play with it whenever they come over. This is why it’s on the floor of the Fortress of Solitude (there’s also about 281 popsicle sticks, a My Pretty Pony, and an unabridged dictionary on the floor).

This morning I woke up with The Rolling Stones’ “Mother’s Little Helper” stuck in my head. Maybe it’s because I was dreaming about Robin and Clara Jane. And I don’t know what it was about the song this morning, but it inspired me to jump from my desk and perform an interpretive dance. I think it was the way that Mick sings “Doctor, please some more of these, outside the door, she took four more.” I don’t know, but during my unrehearsed recital, I spied the bat out of the corner of my eye. I picked it up from the floor and pretended to bite its head off. Then I popped some heavy metal fingers and head banging to end the performance. When I was done I blushed a little, kind of embarrassed at what a giant jackass I am. But then I remembered this is entirely why I like to live alone.

Now, it’s 8:28 and I’m still in a complete and total state of undress, which means I’m surely going to be late for work. I’ve decided that’s just gonna have to be okay, because I needed a mental health morning. I spent most of last night in a PMS-induced funk alleviated only by dissing penised non-responders with Kelly. I think I earned a little alone time with the Rolling Stones.

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