It's late. Well, it's not really—it's only a bit after 11pm. But Top Management likes to get up around 6 in the damn morning so she can write before The Brawn gets up—for some reason, even after 25 years of practice, she apparently finds it difficult to write creatively once a small dervish begins whirling around in close proximity. (Yeah, he's still at the age—or perhaps just One of Those—who wakes up early and is immediately Ready and a-Rarin' to Go.)
I notice she's on her phone, so I do as I've been repeatedly instructed by her, and I point out the time. "Get off Twitter," I say, gently, lovingly, sweetly, with only her best intentions in my heart, as always.
She puts her phone down with a literal hmph and picks up her Kindle.
"I can’t believe how many hot takes I’m missing right now," she grumbles.
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