Today was great. I woke up hella Mortality Hungover but wound up strangely life-affirmed.

First things first: RIP Gene Wilder. Also, to the Gen X kids like me whose childhood is finally dead, let’s take this discussion offline and talk about why growing up took so damn long (we will be screening Stranger Things and serving New York Seltzer).

When I left work yesterday, I was crushed. By everything. Everyone I love will die. Everything ends. Every icon is mortal. Fallible. In your great Fairytale, the Prince sometimes has 4 wives (3 of whom are not Gilda Radner).

I had myself a good cry (like, a really good one, with a towel over my face and everything) and then I had a hot epsom salt and lavender oil bath. I stayed perfectly sober. I stretched and rubbed out the muscles in my back that have been causing tremendous pain for the last week or so. And then I went to bed.

I woke up still feeling flat. Just, sort of like a steamrolled cartoon character. But then Carole King’s annoying ass was singing in my head, telling me that I’ve got to get up and show the world all the love in my heart. And I heard Willy Wonka and Mr. Rogers chiming in, and Jim Henson was just standing in the back with Kermit the Frog draped over his hand.

So I got up. And took my shower. And drove to work, which is mercifully close to home (and filled with many people that I enjoy seeing each day).

And I was thankful that I could face this life without feeling it was entirely hopeless.

(I also talked to Rosemary and it was incredible, but that is a post for tomorrow. The short version: Jane is deceased. But we are alive.)