Analysis

Saturday, while we waited for the party bus to take us to Camden, NJ for the Anger Management Tour 3, with Eminem and 50 Cent (which was awesome, by the way), I told My Sharona about a dream I'd had the night before, wherein I had a baby and it died because I didn't know how to care for it. I'll spare you the gruesome details, because they're well, gruesome. After I told the story, My Sharona and I tried to figure out what it meant.

"I think you're not as adamant about not having kids as you claim to be," My Sharona offered. "You want kids, but you're just afraid –"

"That I'll kill them?"

"Yeah."

"Or," I began. "Maybe it's not really about babies at all. Maybe it's about relationships. And I'm afraid I'm too broken to get into another one. That I won't able to make it work."

"Maybe."

"Or," I said. "Maybe I just had the dream because The Roommate boiled a baby at the end of her act last night."

"Oh, that's possible."