It wasn’t just the margaritas talking, I really did shoot my wad on all that bitching and moaning about the fare hike. I just want to roll over and go to sleep now, and when I wake up, it will be 85¢ again. All this will have been a bad dream.

But, alas, I cannot sleep. There’s no rest for the Superfriends. Oops. Well, I’m sure many had begun to suspect something like this, anyway. Without compromising my Superhero identity, I have to tell you all… I am the one with the biggest…pompadour. But don’t ask me to divulge anything more, because if I tell you I have to feed you to Gleek.

While I wallow in stage two (blind denial) some have moved on to stage four in the Kübler-Ross Grief Cycle: bargaining. Shugars has divulged she is almost ready to roll with a website devoted to a boycott of the T. When she gets it up and running, I will pass on the url to all of you, my gentle readers. But please, don’t tell Shugars about stage five (depression). She will find out soon enough, I guess.

I was at a movie Sunday. I’ll admit it, I went to see Mission: Masturbation III. Yee-IKES. Tom Cruise IS the new Michael Jackson. But I just was not in the mood for Akeela and the Bee, and RV was all sold out.

The most relevant thing I saw–as far as this blog’s concerned–was the commercial for bed-wetting they played before the movie. It conveyed the message I would like to pass on to you tonight: “I’m not going to let it rule my life.” Not bed-wetting, per se, but, you know, the T fare hike. I’m not a bed wetter. I’m NOT.

I also saw a dead cat on the Mass Ave the other morning biking to South Bay Shopping Center. The Goya products at the new Stuper Slop-n-Shop there are twice, if not three times what they are at the Shaw’s next to the JFK/UMass T station, by the way. Both are about equidistant from my place, in opposite directions of each other, of course. But it’s easier to ride my bike to South Bay. I needed espresso coffee, and in an emergency I always head straight for the Goya aisle, because it’s, like, a buck-seventy for 8 ounces–it tastes like jet fuel, but works like it, too. I’d rather have my Illy, but I have to go Whole Foods to get it.

And lest you think I’m one of these snooty bitches with some fancy-ass Rancilio Silvia espresso machine, here is an actual picture of mine:

Keepin’ it real.

Like I said, this was an emergency, and then I see this dead cat. It looked like it was just lying there on the side of the road, but I knew it was dead. It was not until I cycled back that I saw it’s little face, twisted in a silent scream worthy of Munch. That little face has flashed in my head time and again since I saw it. Was it an omen? Some kind of punishment? That and the bed wetting have made it impossible to attend my usual weekend slumber parties. I have no place to show off my underoos.

Gawd, I hate the T.