[ WP ] You live in a world where every conversation is a cliche . You are the only one that notices this .

`` AAAAAGH!'' 
 
 My wife jumped, spilling her glass of'09 Napa Merlot all over the armrest. `` Peter! Gosh darn it, look what you made me do!'' 
 
 `` Hon, I'm sorry. I just *ca n't take it anymore. *'' I rolled my head back and pressed my fingers to the bridge of my nose. The headaches were getting more frequent: awful, throbbing affairs that felt like a gremlin poking me behind the eyes, maliciously and repeatedly. *Is this bugging you, Petey? Is this bugging you? Is it? Is it? * `` Shut up,'' I muttered, earning myself a baleful look from Monica. ( The former Monica, who now insisted I call her by her middle name, Paige, so we could be'two P's in a pod.' ) 
 
 She swiped angrily at the stain with a cocktail napkin, then rose to get some cold water from the sink, her face tight. Our apartment was small, but that had never bothered me before. Now it felt like a prison cell. Our dog, Homer – Monica had n't yet succeeded in her lobbying efforts to change his name to Persimmon, for the all-important third'P' – gave me a steady, ears-up, head-tilted look of concern. On the TV, Dwight Schrute mugged hideously for the camera and brayed `` That's the way the cookie crumbles, Jim!'' The laugh track roared. My gremlin gave me a particularly vicious jab. 
 
 `` Honestly, Peter, I'm at my wit's end,'' Monica fretted from the kitchen. `` You –'' 
 
 `` Stop talking like that,'' I interrupted. `` *Please* stop talking like that.'' 
 
 `` Like *what*? Do n't tell me you're losing your marbles again –'' 
 
 `` Monica!'' I'd hardly ever interrupted her, before. Now I could hardly ever stop myself. I ignored her glare – not for the interruption, she did n't care about that these days, but for using the `` wrong'' name – and desperately tried again. `` Do n't you remember how things used to be different? You used to be a Classics professor! You were the smartest person I've ever met!'' 
 
 `` I still am a Classics professor, Peter,'' she said, using the deliberately reasonable tone I associate with kindergarten classes and hostage situations. 
 
 `` No! No, you're not, *Monica*. Because *there are no more Classics*. I may not have known Ovid as well as you, but I'm fairly certain the *Metamorphoses* was n't a setup for a shaggy-dog joke, and I'm *completely fucking certain* it was n't written in *Pig Latin! *'' I was practically screaming by the end, and Monica shrank back, putting the kitchen counter between us. Suddenly I felt horrible. Whatever was going on with the world these days, it could hardly be her fault. `` And *The Office* did n't have a laugh track,'' I muttered resentfully, subsiding. 
 
 `` Peter,'' she tried to soothe me, `` You're working too hard…'' 
 
 It was useless. The only responses I could get out of her – or anyone – were cheesy clichés and bromides. The Earth had been thoroughly basted in Velveeta, and I was starting to doubt my own sanity. I got up and walked over to the mantel, where Monica's prized collection of Etruscan artifacts had been replaced overnight by tacky porcelain figurines. A sloppily painted and even more sloppily glazed clown gave me a vacant grin, overseen by my vintage *Star Wars* poster. Except *Star Wars*, in this universe, had apparently starred Lou Ferrigno, Christopher Lambert, and Tina Louise. I closed my eyes. Monica/Paige droned on in the background, something about a stitch in time saving nine, though the relevance of that particular saw escaped me. Michael Scott cracked up the taped audience with an incredibly depressing fart joke. `` That was a real stinker, Michael,'' I murmured. 
 
 And that's when I heard it. Right on the edge of perception, like distant surf, it was – laughter? A crowd, it sounded like. It definitely had n't come from the TV, which had cut to a commercial break. *Those* still did n't have laugh tracks, were about the same as ever, in fact. I bent down and lowered the volume just in case, shushing Monica at the same time. `` It's quiet,'' I said experimentally, `` Too quiet.'' There it was again, louder this time – definitely a lot of people, laughing fit to bust a gut. `` This is a pretty pickle.'' More laughter. `` Eureka!'' *Uproarious* laughter, and I suddenly realized my headache was gone. I looked over at my wife; a smile was spreading across her face, and after a moment, I matched it with one of my own. 
 
 `` I have been acting crazy, have n't I?'' She nodded slowly, now wearing a full-fledged, shit-eating grin. *Shit-eating grin, that's a good one. * `` Never mind, hon – Paige,'' I said, feeling better than I had in days. `` All's well that ends well.'' 

