No more tears

"As I lay next to you in hyperacidity," I sing, in my best imitation of Geoff Tate's unabashedly bass bass, my best imitation being pretty, pretty bad. You snicker, then laugh, and your laughter extends into extended laughter that lasts more than I expect it to. I roll my eyes and giggle. It's 6:19 a.m., and our day has just begun.

There's a turn in the road and you steer; meanwhile, the DJ introduces the next song, saying it's by Better Than Ezra. I say, "T. S. T. S. is better than Ezra." You hoot with laughter and I settle snugly into my seat, secure in the knowledge that I'm the funniest person on earth. Never mind Tina Fey, and never mind the people who laugh, not at my jokes, but at my (almost always) failed attempts to crack them. You--with your usually morose moods and propensity for brooding--think I'm funny, and that's all that matters, where my sense of humor is concerned.

I squint behind my glasses and make a mental note to get a better pair. It hardly ever happens, but today, they start to play "Friends of P." and excitedly, I sing along. From the corner of my eye, I could see you grinning, and I find myself throwing a "thank you" note into the air, for turning us into the pair of (slightly saner) fools that we have become.