Mortimore lives in my Missy Younger’s room. He’s a stag beetle. At least, I think that’s what he is; I have never had the dubious pleasure of eyeballing him. I do not want to meet him. I hate bugs. I am even afraid of them.
Most of the times, I avoid such encounters by sequestering myself in my office. There, not only do I escape the attention of members of the Lucanidae family, but I also manage to quell any of my preexistent, harmful passions.
As a Mommy Writer, I brim with prehistoric, fire-breathing tendencies. Such propensities arise from the combination of my inherent, female, chemical soup and from my inherent, female, parental need to suppress all of the local, recurring, coup-d’etats.
Specifically, when toy geese go swimming in the toilet, when the hamburger meant for dinnertime gets consumed as an afterschool snack, or when the circuits shorts, especially while I am penning a “masterpiece,” because too many electronic entertainment devices have been simultaneously plugged in, I rage. Using only my screen as a protective device between my feelings and my young, I storm through alien creatures and careless love arrangements. I take bites out of government officials and deconstruct all possible escapes that wanton mangers might have considered evoking. My fictional world makes my real one safer. No quolls patrol our corridors, yet.
