Roberta was taking my pants down. I felt the sudden urge to change the subject: “What is your favorite kind of cereal?” I said. She immediately stood back up and began skipping around the room and singing in frog. “I understand everything,” I said. “Of course you do, and that’s why I have to cut you up into granola bar shaped pieces,” she ribbited. Things started to get tumultuous after that. Scissor like mandibles began to come out of her armpits and snap at me. I grabbed a butter knife off the counter and began spreading at them with it, sure that a less injurious deflection technique might decrease the probability of psychic revisitation. “This is a selfless job,” she said. “I ran after a boy today and made sure to put myself between him and harms way,” I said. “No you didn’t,” she said. “You suck,” I said. “I love you,” she said. Then she hit me over the head with the recycling bin. I pulled a machine gun out from underneath the couch and tried to shoot her, but I kept hitting the sun. It turned blue and flew away. “Now what are we going to do?” I said. “I suppose we’ll have to start over, she said. “I think I like that,” I said. “Yeah, I think that is a pretty good idea,” she said.  “Yeah, that’s a pretty good idea, I said. And then I flew away too.

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