Whenever Dylan’s lazying the day away in bed, I at intervals march near to him, announce the time and count backwards toward 8AM. I say to him, “Get up. One Direction’s already been in the studio making crap music for hours. You must help combat the disease. Rise, motherfucker, and shine.” Dylan’s muscles will twitch a bit. Then usually he’ll mumble some dismissive and pleading thing along lines of, “Okay, okay. Five more minutes.” Some time later, I do the same thing. March purposefully near to Dylan’s prostrate form, give him an update as to how long already One Direction’s been making shuddersome sounds while Dylan just lies there letting the world artistically darken by people who nonetheless are productive and awake. By the time I mention how long and how early on whatever the given day people like Katy Perry and Taylor Swift have been hard at work spreading artistic terror and musical anguish, Dylan’s desire to sleep forever gets contaminated. I sometimes have to add quite a number of furthering examples. When I get to word pairs like “Justin Bieber” and “Selena Gomez,” Dylan finally will be rendered sufficiently upset. He’ll get up, grumbling and annoyed, but aware that he can put it all off no longer. He must fight the good fight. Help bring light against all that darkness. And so he gets up, tired but ready for another day’s musical war, somber and silent in the recognition that I am right. And I am of course right, I’m the wife.