Yesterday, as my mother lay in bed moaning and I searched her crammed drawers for the brace she insisted was in there, the television was tuned to some talk show like Springer or Montel or the like and a woman was featured who was some sort of psychic and one of the guests asked, “My boyfriend was gunned down in a drug transaction and I was wondering if he left a will,” – “NO!” the psychic resoundingly said. Next, “Do butterflies mean my dead mother is trying to get in touch with me?” “YES!” the psychic resoundingly said. Another piped in, “What about ladybugs?” – as I rummaged in the drawers, coming across pajamas from 1962 amongst a black and red lace corset and assorted sweaters, and tops, my mind was screaming “ladybugs, ahhh!” – but later on, when I had come home to the safety of the LaLa and had gone outside for a brief moment to take Arlene out for a final pee, a rather large roach scurried across the sidewalk and my tainted mind couldn’t help but wonder, “could that be a sign from my ex-lover?”